Long Live the King
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: ToKW AU. For over two hundred years, Washington has reigned over the United Kingdom of America. The apparently immortal, all powerful king has never had anyone to challenge his rule. Desmond was born and raised with the knowledge that to resist the king's power is madness- but unfortunately, that's exactly what these nut jobs that kidnapped him are planning to do.
1. Chapter 1

Desmond is tired and unhappy when he gets out of work, sometime a little past two in the morning. This is his fourth time this week that his boss has asked him to stay past the end of his shift, and this time the excuse had been that someone needs to clean the tiny bathroom in the back of the building. The one that always smells like vomit for the very good reason that this is where patrons go to throw up. Desmond has been the one to clean it the last six times, even though he's not the only person that works at Bad Weather and any of the others would be perfectly capable of pushing a mop around back there.

But Desmond does as he's told anyway, because his boss _knows_ , he's _seen_ and there's no arguing with people like that.

He pulls his hat down lower over his ears, and growls to himself in a general show of displeasure. This job sucks, and his boss sucks. Sometimes, Desmond thinks the man is nothing but a collection of bad habits, snapping his gum and picking his nose and going too long between showers. Disgusting, on top of being both stingy and kind of a jerk. If the rest of his life hadn't been such a shambles, Desmond doubts he would have stayed as long as he already has.

His walk home is nothing but busy, crowded streets. Desmond makes sure of that now, because people do stupid things sometimes when there's no one around to see. He would rather make sure that if someone comes after him, there will be witnesses. It takes him a while longer to get home than it would have if he'd gone directly, but he'll take safety over speed.

Desmond is only halfway home when he hears the footsteps behind him, a long way back. Distinctive. Combat boots, maybe even military. They don't worry him at first, because there are plenty of guards in this part of New York. But when Desmond has made three more turns and can still hear the boots behind him, gaining on him, he realizes there's something wrong.

He speeds up. The sound of the boots behind him speeds up as well. Desmond glances over his shoulder, and sees him. Dark clothes, a hood covering his face, and boots. Even without being able to see the man's face, Desmond knows it must be angry.

He knows it's stupid, but he breaks into a run anyway. The man in the boots is going to catch him if he doesn't do something, and Desmond is running away from so many things in his past that sometimes it feels like running is the only thing he knows how to do, the only reaction he has to whatever's threatening him.

And Desmond is good at running, but not so good at thinking of a place to run to. That's why he makes the blind turn down the alley, not even looking, so that he crashes right into the man standing there and waiting for him. The man is big. Desmond bounces off him like a character in some cartoon and falls flat on his back. The ground cracks against the back of his head and his vision starts to swim. But he smells the chloroform when the man pulls out the rag, and struggles against the hand that shoves it across his mouth and nose.

It doesn't take long for the drug to take effect, though, and soon enough Desmond feels his limbs go slack. The world starts to go dark, and Big Guy steps away from him with a grunt as Combat Boots comes running toward them.

"Damn," Combat Boots says from what sounds like a very long way away. "This one can run. We sure he's not part rabbit?"

Big Guy leans over- he smells like sweat even through the haze of chloroform hanging around Desmond's nose like a cloud- and pulls the hat off Desmond's head, flicking at an ear derisively. "Nope," he says. "Not part rabbit. We got the right guy."

And that's the last Desmond hears before passing out.

-/-

He wakes in an unknown room that smells of absolutely nothing. For a minute he lies perfectly still, breathing slowly and deeply, oddly disoriented by the lack of smell. Eventually, he opens his eyes and looks around.

Bright white walls. Sparse, white furniture. A door that Desmond doesn't even have to try to open to know that it will be locked. He gets up. His legs shake, and he sticks out a hand to steady himself against the table he'd woken up on. It's a weird looking table, and the shape makes Desmond wonder if it doesn't have some purpose he can't figure out.

"It's called an animus."

He stiffens at the woman's voice, but doesn't turn around until he's calm enough to keep the surprise off his face. "Hi," he says. What a stupid thing to say right now. "Where is this?"

"Uh-" She flashes him a quick, apologetic smile. "Sorry. Can't tell you."

"Who are you then? Why am I here? What-"

"I really can't tell you much," she protests. "But I'm Lucy."

"I'm…" he trails off, tamping down the natural impulse of politeness because he's pretty sure he's just been kidnapped.

"Desmond Miles," she says. "Yes, we know."

"How? I haven't- I mean, that hasn't been my name since I was sixteen."

"Hiding from someone?" Lucy asks.

"From everyone." He sits back down on the table and looks at her. "From my family, from the law, from… whoever you are."

"You must have been doing a pretty good job," Lucy says.

"Apparently not," Desmond says wryly. "I'm here instead of at home." He sighs, looking pleadingly at Lucy. "So at least tell me what you want. If this is a ransom thing, I should warn you there's no one around that would actually pay for me."

But Lucy doesn't get a chance to answer before the door whooshes silently open (explaining, at least, how Lucy had been able to get in without him hearing her), and an older man comes in.

"Dr. Vidic," Lucy says, hurrying forward. "I was just-"

"It doesn't matter," Vidic snaps. He brushes her aside with an impatient gesture and strides over to Desmond. "This-" he points at the table. "Is called an animus. A machine invented to relive the lives of one's ancestors. That's what we need from you. Relive your ancestor's life, show us what we need to know, and then you can go."

"Sure," Desmond says glumly. He would have to be an idiot to believe that.

And then suddenly Vidic's hand is on Desmond's chest, pushing him down with more strength than Desmond would have guessed the old man had in him. "This is not a discussion," he hissed. "We don't know how long it will take to get what we need, but it's almost certainly not enough. This will go faster if you're a willing participant, but I can induce a coma if need be. Slow progress is still better than no progress, and this is the only warning I'm planning to give you."

"Okay, okay!" There's something in Vidic's eyes, a desperation that Desmond has very rarely seen before, and is too scared to argue with. Besides, he's defenseless and flat on his back with Vidic looming over him like some kind of beast from a nightmare. This close, Desmond is almost choking on the stench of him, like rotten meat. "I'll do it, just- what ancestor am I supposed to look at? How far back?"

Vidic grunts and pushes himself away, ignoring Desmond's questions completely.

"Come on, man!" Desmond protests, a little desperately. He's not quite as scared of this animus thing as he is of Vidic, but it's not exactly something he's looking forward to. "You have to tell me something!"

Vidic hesitates, then grunts and nods at Lucy.

But when she walks back over to him, she doesn't exactly start by answering his questions. "These are unusual," she says instead, pointing at his ears.

"Guess so," Desmond mumbles. He self-consciously flattens his hair over his ears, like that will make any difference at all.

"May I?" Lucy asks, and Desmond only nods because he's so surprised. People don't usually ask, just stare. She nods and runs her fingers lightly over the fur on the back on the closer ear, which is unfortunate because it really tickles and this is not a laughing situation. "How do you hide these?" she asks. "Dog ears kind of… stick out. Literally."

"Hats," Desmond mutters. He doesn't tell her about any of the other things that are wrong with him to go along with the ears. She did just kidnap him, he thinks. "And not enough haircuts." He paused a second. "And they're wolf ears, actually. But what does that have to do with my ancestor?"

"I was just wondering if that's where you got it from," Lucy says. "I know that people that drink the tea often have children with more… obviously animal characteristics, and the ancestor we're interested in was one of the first shape changers."

Desmond shrugs. "I'm not exactly a genetics expert," he says. "Maybe. I don't know how it all works." He hesitates. "So if he was one of the first shape changers, that would be right at the beginning of the king's reign, right?"

"Yes." Lucy pulls her hand back from Desmond as Vidic calls that he's ready. "His name's Ratonhnhaké:ton, and the things in his head might just save the world."

-/-

The first thing Desmond notices when he opens his eyes, is that they are not his eyes. He isn't actually moving, it just feels like he is. It's like being paralyzed in a body that's still moving, and it takes him a second to get over that and just roll with it.

After that, the second thing he notices is the _color_.

Somewhere back in his family tree, some ancestor- possibly this one, according to Lucy- had drunk the tea and met with a spirit animal. That trait had been passed down, generation by generation, until it got to Desmond. And, like his father before him, and his grandfather before _him_ , Desmond had been born just a little bit less than human.

It's sort of unusual for the trait to be passed down for that many generations- Desmond's grandfather used to joke that their ancestor must have _chugged_ the willow's tea to have it still be this obvious so many years later. It usually dies out after only a generation or two, but Desmond's grandfather swore until he was on his deathbed that _his_ grandfather was in the same boat, and that there were probably even more ancestors, further back from him.

Desmond doesn't really think it's anything to joke about. His grandfather had been born with wings, he could _fly_ , before he got old, anyway, so he'd obviously gotten the good genes. Eagle, or something. But Desmond (while still thanking God every day that he hadn't been born part bear, like his father), is not that lucky. He's part wolf.

The most obvious sign of that part of his heritage are his ears. There's absolutely nothing fun about having ears twice the size of any normal human's, complete with fur, sticking out from the side of his head. But at least he's got above average hearing to go with them, and his sense of smell is just as good. And, small miracle, his nose still looks completely normal.

Apart from those differences, the rest of Desmond's wolf genes show themselves in small, subtle ways. He likes his meat a little red, and he is absurdly in love with dogs. Sometimes he thinks they're easier to understand than people. If he doesn't pay attention, he'll growl when he's mad or whine when he's upset. But all of those are still small things, that don't really impact his day to day life. And until today, he'd thought his color blindness was one of those small things too.

Desmond, like wolves and dogs and (he likes to remind himself) approximately one percent of the male _human_ population, is red-green colorblind. He sees a whole lot of yellow, some blue, and not much else. On top of that, what he does see is usually dim and a little blurry, which is why he pays more attention to what he can hear or smell than what he can see.

But _God_ , this ancestor. He can see everything. Colors that Desmond never knew existed. So while he knows, intellectually, that there is a color called _green_ that belongs to trees and grass and plants, this is the first time he's ever seen it. Waking up in the middle of a forest that looks like it's been painted over with this _green_ … it's just…

 _"Focus, Desmond,"_ Lucy calls, and even though he knows she's only feet away from him, her voice sounds distant.

 _"We're on a deadline,"_ Vidic adds, and Desmond is relieved to realize he's almost bearable, with two and a half centuries between them.

 _"So you keep saying,"_ he says, and he can hear his voice in his ears, so he knows his mouth must be moving- but he can't feel them, all he can feel is Ratonhnhaké:ton, and that's the weirdest thing of all, so far.

 _"Coma,"_ Vidic snarls, a reminder and a threat, and Desmond would have rolled his eyes if they'd been his to roll and not Ratonhnhaké:ton's. Broken record, much?

But if these people are going to kill him either way- and he has no reason to think they won't- he'd rather spend his last few days seeing things like this than in a coma. So even though everything feels weird and wrong and bent out of shape, Desmond bites down the urge to say something sarcastic, and gets on with the memory.

-/-

It takes Desmond a while to realize that something is wrong, from Ratonhnhaké:ton's point of view. He's so busy adjusting to too-many-colors and not-enough-smell to realize that his ancestor is struggling as well. Desmond is in his head, but not really in his thoughts, so he can only pick up an odd thought here and there.

But still, Desmond eventually picks up on the fact that Ratonhnhaké:ton isn't expecting the world to be the way it is. It's obvious, to Desmond anyway, in the way he hugs his mother (while his mind fills up with memories of fire and fear). It's obvious in the way he talks about the king like he should be someone else (and the feelings in his chest are complicated and painful but Ratonhnhaké:ton is not _afraid_ , the way everyone is afraid of King Washington). It's obvious in the way he looks at his own arms, and his mind paints in white robes and weapons where in reality there is nothing but bare skin.

But Ratonhnhaké:ton is quiet, rarely speaking, apart to ask questions. Desmond has just about given up on any kind of explanation coming from his ancestor, when Ratonhnhaké:ton arrives with his mother, back in their village. When she hands him a set of hidden blades, explaining that his father had left them for Ratonhnhaké:ton to use, a storm of emotions rises up in Ratonhnhaké:ton's throat. The feelings are so intense and so unexpected that for a moment, it's all Desmond can do to hang on tight and try not to be thrown out of the memory.

"I know who my father was," Ratonhnhaké:ton says softly, strapping them on. "And I know what these are."

"You do?" And his mother seems equal parts embarrassed and confused. "How?"

"Because none of this is _right_!" Ratonhnhaké:ton bursts out. Hidden blades safely strapped to his forearms, he puts his hands on his mother's shoulders, as if to reassure himself that she is still solid. "Mother, you should not even be alive. I saw… you were…"

Desmond waits impatiently for Ratonhnhaké:ton to get his words in order, to explain what is wrong with him, or wrong with the world, maybe. But that is when the king comes riding into the village at the head of his army, and the conversation is cut brutally short as Ratonhnhaké:ton and his mother go running outside together.

The king does not look at all different in these memories than he does in the present day, and the instinct to kneel is so strong in Desmond that only Ratonhnhaké:ton keeps him on his feet. Of course, everyone knows that king Washington is more or less immortal, but this is an eerie kind of confirmation.

After that, everything is kind of a blur. The fight is harsh and brutal and long, and when the king kills Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother in front of his eyes, Desmond feels the shock and grief in his mind as strongly as if it were his own. The memory cannot continue under the combined force of Desmond's grief mixed up with Ratonhnhaké:ton's, and mercifully he finds himself ejected at last from the animus.

Vidic doesn't shout at him the way he expects, but Lucy comes by after a moment. "Don't worry," she says softly, squeezing his shoulder. "You can have a few minutes while we recalibrate the animus."

"Thank you," Desmond whispers. Tears are pouring down his face, and behind the sadness he is infuriated at the way he loses control over the death of another man's mother.

"The animus can't handle that memory," Lucy explains. "Too many feelings- the animus isn't good with that."

"Me neither," Desmond says, and almost manages a laugh. Lucy smiles back at him, tight and strained.

"Do you want to talk?" she asks. "Vidic won't let me mess with the animus codes, so I'm pretty much useless right now."

"Sure." He wipes his face as dry as he can, sitting up as he does so. He's still shaking a little, so Lucy sits down on the animus next to him, and lets Desmond lean against her. "Can I ask a question?" he says.

"I can't tell you too much," she warns. "But you can always ask."

"I just- what exactly are you looking for?" Desmond asks. "We both know I'm not going to live when you're done with me, not if there's a chance the things I'm seeing here could somehow get back to the king after I get out. So why don't you just tell me?"

He sees Lucy glance at Vidic, but the man is so occupied with his work that he doesn't even seem aware that they're talking. "Your ancestor-"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Desmond prompts.

"I can't say that," Lucy admits. "But we suspect that your ancestor came closer than anyone else to taking down the king. And we want to do that."

"You're going to- the _king_ -" Desmond is practically whining in fear, just from the thought of doing something like that, and Lucy seems to sense his unease because she hurries to reassure him.

"He's not immortal," she says. "He's human, just like me or y-" she cuts herself off, flushing and clearly not sure whether Desmond counts as human. "He's human," she says again, her eyes burning with some terrible emotion. "And he can die. He _has_ to die."

" _I'm_ going to die," Desmond says miserably. Because back when this was just a weird kidnapping, there was a tiny, infinitesimal chance that a miracle might happen and get him out of the building alive. Now that he knows they want to kill King Washington, who has been around for literally centuries, who is probably immortal whatever Lucy says, who can kill and enslave with just a flick of his fingers… Now Desmond knows for absolute certainty that he is a dead man.

 **-/-**

 **So... clearly, this is based on ToKW, but it's not going to work out exactly the same. I mean, obviously, in the game Connor gets the apple back from Washington and they go back to the real world. But in this story -something- goes wrong, and Washington is still in power by the time 2012 rolls around. There are going to be other changes, though, because personally I don't think there's any good reason not to include Haytham in the ToKW storyline. And if Haytham's coming in, why not Shay? So... yea. xD**

 **Anyway, please don't expect super fast updates on this. I'm still working on Before Time (and My Father's Keeper, believe it or not, just... very very slowly). But I had this idea, and I really wanted to get it out and into the world before it went away again.**


	2. Chapter 2

Ratonhnhaké:ton wakes up in a cave, and the first thing he knows is that he should be dead. The injuries Washington had given him after… after killing his mother… those injuries should be too much for him to have survived. He had been shot. He had been _bayonetted_. He should not be alive.

"It's not the first time you've survived wounds like that, though," a voice says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tries to lift himself up to see the speaker. Before he can, however, a hand reaches for his chest and pushes him down. Ratonhnhaké:ton lets it happen, staring at that hand as if it is something impossible. And… and it is. Translucent, almost invisible, wearing the same type of blades Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother had passed onto him from his father.

"I don't remember," he says, instead of asking about the arm and why it is invisible. "I…" he feels his face wrinkle up in confusion. "I should remember. There was more. In my head. It's gone now."

" _I_ was in your head," the ghost tells him, and he moves so that Ratonhnhaké:ton can see him better. Apart from the unfamiliar clothes (white, and made in the style of the Europeans rather than Ratonhnhaké:ton's own people) he could actually be Ratonhnhaké:ton. They are identical, and somehow that terrifies Ratonhnhaké:ton more than the injuries he shouldn't have survived.

"You are- you're me?"

"Connor," says the other Ratonhnhaké:ton. Connor, apparently. "I'm who you could have been if things had been different."

"How different?"

"I saw mother die when I was four," Connor says softly. "And everything in me that matters grew out of that. And Washington- he was no king. He was not a nice man, but he was also not a madman. Everything was different."

"So if mother died," Ratonhnhaké:ton says slowly. "Is that why you have another name? Did you go to live with my- your- did you live with father?"

Connor shakes his head, turning away from Ratonhnhaké:ton. "No."

Obviously not a subject Connor wants to discuss, then, and there are more important questions to ask. "Earlier," he says. "You told me you were in my head."

"I was," Connor says slowly. "It's hard to remember, but I…" he presses a hand to his head, obviously thinking hard. "Something happened. And I went from my world to yours, and until Washington almost killed you, I was-"

"We were the same person," Ratonhnhaké:ton finishes. "That's why I knew things I shouldn't have, about father, and about Washington. But now that you're gone, I don't know them anymore." For a long moment, he and Connor look at one another in understanding. They may have had vastly different lives, but they had briefly been the same person, and they were both now in the same horrible situation. "And now you are my own personal ghost," Ratonhnhaké:ton finishes. "Either I have lost my mind, or you have been sent here for a reason."

"But for what reason?" Connor asks.

"Well-" the words are made of rock hard certainty when they fall from his mouth. "If I have anything to say about it, that reason must be to kill King Washington."

Connor looks at him, and nods.

And then a moment later, when the clan mother comes by to scold Ratonhnhaké:ton for trying to move, Connor steps back into the shadows. Unseen and unobserved, invisible to everyone but Ratonhnhaké:ton, he watches.

And he keeps watching, for the many long weeks it takes Ratonhnhaké:ton to recover. Connor seems to be good at that, more so than Ratonhnhaké:ton in any case. He is more patient as well, less inclined to follow his impulses and his anger. When Ratonhnhaké:ton asks why, he almost smiles.

"I have done things and hurt people through my rash actions in the past," he explains. "Friends. Our father. I think that I have learned, at last, to think before I act."

"I have not," Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"I understand," Connor says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton believes him. "Right now, I know that you think of mother when you wake in the morning, and when you sleep at night. I know that the only reason you can force yourself to do anything at all is that you want the man that killed her to die. I used to feel the same."

"Used to?"

"It turns out that even killing the man I held responsible could not bring her back," Connor says.

"I still intend to kill Washington though," Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"He's an evil man in this world," Connor says bluntly. "Your motivations may be personal, but Washington has to be stopped." He hesitates, then adds: "I just don't want to see you lose yourself in the process."

"I won't," Ratonhnhaké:ton assures him. "If nothing else, I have you to stop me when I try to go too far."

"Yes," Connor sighs. "Because a fight between the two of us can only end well."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiles and says, "I would win."

But Connor only laughs and shakes his head. "Let's hope we never have to find out," he says.

Eventually, Ratonhnhaké:ton is well enough to leave the cave. The clan mother sends him out to the great willow in search of the tea his mother had forbidden him to drink, and Connor of course comes with him as an invisible companion. The fresh air, even if it is winter and bitterly cold, cheers them both up, and they don't exactly take the most direct route to the tree.

Ratonhnhaké:ton is still recovering from injuries that Connor doesn't have to deal with, so he often lags behind as they travel. But Connor is not quite as comfortable in the forest as Ratonhnhaké:ton. Still better than most, but Ratonhnhaké:ton is not surprised to learn that Connor has spent more of his time in European settlements and cities than Ratonhnhaké:ton has.

"There are good parts of the cities," Connor says, when Ratonhnhaké:ton gives him a disbelieving look. "Good people."

But Ratonhnhaké:ton is just satisfied to learn he is the better hunter out of the two of them. It is odd, maybe, to feel so competitive with himself, but Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't want to be _better_ , he just… doesn't want to learn he is the weaker version of himself. He needs to kill Washington, and that cannot happen unless he is strong.

Maybe the tea will help.

"I'm surprised you have nothing to say about the tea," Ratonhnhaké:ton says after a few hours' worth of travel. "I thought you were supposed to be my conscience."

"Not your conscience, just less impulsive," Connor corrects. "And while mother did tell us not to drink the tea, I'm having a hard time imagining a consequence worse than continuing to live in the world like this. I think it's worth the risk."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods, reassured by Connor's support.

They press on toward the willow.

-/-

Desmond is surprised when the animus shuts off, and sits up slowly, shaking his head like he's trying to dislodge the pieces of Ratonhnhaké:ton that are still stuck in his mind. "Ugh," he says, making a face. "That still feels weird." Then he looks around, and sees the other two packing up for the night. "Why did we stop?"

"Did you _want_ to keep going?" Lucy demands, stopping her work to look back at him in surprise.

"No! No, obviously not. That animus thing is weird. It just sounded like you were in a hurry, and now all of a sudden we're stopping?"

"For now, yes," Vidic says calmly. "We've already gathered some good information, and-" he adds this next part reluctantly. "As Lucy keeps pointing out, your synch rate will drop if you're pushed too far."

"Get some sleep," Lucy says gently. "There's a bed through that door. We'll be back in the morning."

"But I can't leave, right?" Desmond asks.

"No," Vidic snaps. Desmond growls at him, because he can, because these people already know who and what he is, and there's no use hiding. Vidic looks singularly unimpressed, but Lucy jumps a little and shoots him a startled expression. Desmond immediately stops growling, slightly ashamed of his reaction. Lucy has been kind to him, or at least as kind as she can be under the circumstances.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and sits on the animus, kicking his feet and straining his ears until he finally hears the faintest sound of the door opening and then closing. Vidic's scent fades, but Lucy's- to Desmond's surprise- stays sharp and present.

He looks up at last as she sits next to him. "What's it like?" she asks.

"The animus?" He shrugs. "Fine. I'm just glad I don't have to go through Connor's memories on top of Ratonhnhaké:ton's." Lucy nods, and they share a look of perfect confusion. None of them had expected Connor to show up in Ratonhnhaké:ton's memories, and until Desmond heard Vidic start shouting at Lucy to figure out what was going on, he'd almost thought it was all his imagination.

And then the moment passes, and Lucy sighs and shakes her head. "No. I've talked to other subjects, I think I know about as much about the animus as I can without going in myself. I meant what is it like to have… to not be…"

"Oh," Desmond says. "You mean what is it like when you're not human?"

"I don't know how to say it politely," she says. "Inhuman seems so insensitive. I mean, it's not like you don't think or feel. You're not someone's pet, you're not a wild animal. But there's a difference."

"It's okay," Desmond says softly. "You can say inhuman. I know it's true."

"But it's not bad."

"You wouldn't say that," Desmond told her softly. "If you'd grown up like I did. My dad and my grandpa were the only people I ever met that were like me. Everyone else, when they looked at me… all I ever saw was disgust. Pity. Some people were afraid of me, which is… a weird thing to see when you're six years old."

"Then they're wrong," Lucy says. "To think that way, I mean."

"It doesn't help me any. That's part of the reason I ran away. I wanted to go somewhere that nobody knew me. So I could hide what I was and start over."

"Wasn't that dangerous, though?" Lucy asks tentatively. "If you'd been caught-"

"I would have been caged," Desmond finishes for her. "Or drafted into the king's guards. Washington doesn't like to have people running around with the effects of the tea in their blood, unless they're under his control." He looks at her, and wishes he could see her with his ancestor's eyes, in bright, full color. Even under the circumstances, he thinks she would be beautiful. "Do you think the king acts like that because of Ratonhnhaké:ton? Do you really think he was a threat to Washington?"

"That's why you're here," Lucy tells him. "We think he drank the tea, and we think he almost killed the king. We just have no idea how."

"Still." And for the first time in his life, Desmond feels something like pride stir in his stomach. Someone like him, not even human, an outsider in every sense of the word, had taken on the king, and had almost won.

"Hey," Lucy says, nudging him. "Look at that."

"What?"

"You do know how to smile."

-/-

"Alright," Connor admits grudgingly when they reach the roots of the great willow. "I'm starting to have second thoughts."

"Now?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demands, and Connor is briefly amused at the exasperation his double's voice. But this situation does not lend itself well to humor, and he quickly grows serious again as Ratonhnhaké:ton continues. "We came all this way."

"I do not like the way this place looks," Connor says. He tilts his head back, straining to see the top of the willow. It's just out of sight, above the range of his vision. "This tree does not even exist in my world."

"Neither do I," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, which is an interesting claim. Technically, they are the same person, so Ratonhnhaké:ton does exist in Connor's world, he just exists as Connor. But they have been shaped since the age of four by completely different lives. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't even know what the assassins are, and Connor finds himself strangely reluctant to inform him. Instead, Ratonhnhaké:ton grew up in his village, with his mother and actual friends. If they are that different, is it really accurate to say they are the same person?

He lets the moment pass, though, but files the thought away for later. "Are you really sure you want this?" he asks Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Mother said it was dangerous."

"Mother was not infallible," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and Connor flushes a little. She had always seemed perfect to him, when he knew her as a child. He had idolized the memory of her growing up, and wonders what he might have thought of her if he'd been able to grow up at home. Another thought for later, when things calm down a little. If they ever do.

"It's your choice," Connor says at last.

"Then I want to try," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "I'll go up and cut the branches I need. Then I'll bring it back down and make it here, so you can watch in case anything goes wrong."

Connor gives him his best unimpressed look. Ratonhnhaké:ton returns one that is exactly the same. "Fine," he says. "I will wait."

And while he waits, he worries. This tea had seemed like a marginally good idea when they'd agreed to try, back at the cave. It no longer does. At all. There is something about this place that makes the hair on the back of Connor's neck stand up like soldiers marching in line, and it seems like an actual age before Ratonhnhaké:ton returns to the ground. He comes slowly, climbing down the side of the tree despite a thick pile of leaves not ten yards away. Connor wonders why for a moment, then remembers Ratonhnhaké:ton is not an assassin, and apparently has never learned to make a leap of faith.

Everything is different here. Connor looks at Ratonhnhaké:ton's face and cannot even recognize himself.

"I got it," Ratonhnhaké:ton says at last.

"And you're still sure?"

"More than before," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and for a moment Connor envies him that conviction. He has not been that certain about anything since before he killed his father. After that, there is… nothing. Stumbling in darkness, uncertain about the decisions he's made, and even less certain about the future ahead of him.

Ratonhnhaké:ton is certain, as certain as Connor was, once upon a time when things still made sense.

He sits on the ground and watches while Ratonhnhaké:ton brews the tea. When it's done, they look at each other and Connor nods. "If you're going to do it, then do it," he says. "Don't hesitate."

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't. His body shudders for a moment as he drinks, and then all at once he spasms and collapses onto the ground. Connor half rises, crouching over his double, inexplicably _worried_.

On some level he is worried because he and Ratonhnhaké:ton are almost the same person. Connor is not sure what happens to him if Ratonhnhaké:ton dies from this tea. But he is also worried because…

Because for all their differences, they share a mother. And a father. Connor has lost or destroyed every piece of family that he has ever known but here, now, in the strangest way possible, the universe has granted him another chance. A brother.

He will not let this last piece of his family go.

-/-

Desmond gets as far as the memory of Ratonhnhaké:ton drinking the tea before the animus kicks him to the loading screen. It's not the first time this has happened, and after a few moments of nothing, Desmond sighs and sits down to wait. The animus is even slower than his ancient laptop, and he could be here for a while.

After a minute or so of continued nothing, Desmond feels something wet push against his forearm. Had he not already been sitting, he would have jumped; as it is, he turns around and-

"Oh!" Because there is a wolf at his back, a wolf that smells like nothing and is actually see through. But still Desmond smiles. He has always gotten along better with wolves than humans. Wolves apparently see him as _half like us_ instead of _half different_ , the way humans do. Desmond gives the wolf an enthusiastic hug, glad that he can at least feel it. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

And Desmond freezes, because it is not the wolf that speaks (of course it isn't, wolves can't talk). And then he looks up. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," he says. "So this is- this must be where your mind goes when you drink the tea."

"How do you know me?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks, and Desmond practically falls over himself to explain everything. He doesn't know how this is possible but he likes Ratonhnhaké:ton already from his time in his ancestor's memories. He wants Ratonhnhaké:ton to like him too. At the end, Ratonhnhaké:ton rubs at his face and sighs. "First Connor," he says. "Now you."

"And this guy," Desmond says, gesturing to the wolf. "I could be wrong, but I think this is the spirit animal you came here to meet."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods and crouches down in front of the invisible wolf. The wolf wags its tail, and Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly stretches a hand out-

The wolf tenses up and leaps at- _into_ Ratonhnhaké:ton. Desmond gasps and stumbles backward, watching as Ratonhnhaké:ton begins to glow, lines burning themselves onto his face. He grunts in pain and falls forward to rest on all fours. And then the glow fades, and Desmond smiles. Ratonhnhaké:ton _barely_ looks different, apart from the new markings. His body is unchanged, but there is a strong thread of wolf in his scent that Desmond very much likes.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks like the addicts Desmond used to see in New York, heady and high with something powerful running through his veins. He actually smiles. "This is amazing," he says.

"You like it?"

" _Yes_." Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him, eyes wide, so that for a moment Desmond can't help thinking of him as an overexcited puppy. "This is how you feel all the time?"

Desmond snorts. "I don't know what you're feeling right now," he says. "But you look way more excited than I usually am."

"But this is… it's great!"

"Maybe for you," Desmond grumbles. "The tea gives power to the person that drinks it. It gives weird ears to their descendants."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks like he doesn't quite know what to say to that.

"Come on," Desmond says, taking pity on him and dropping the subject. "Let me show you some things before you have to wake up, okay?" When Ratonhnhaké:ton nods, Desmond tells him to close his eyes. "I can show you how to see like a wolf," he says. "With your nose and your ears instead of your eyes."

"You don't have to do this," Ratonhnhaké:ton says quietly. "Why do you want to help me?"

"Because you're my ancestor," Desmond says. "And that means your family. Because you didn't say anything about my ears, like most people do. And-" he stops himself at the last second from comparing Ratonhnhaké:ton to a puppy. He probably wouldn't take it well. Instead, Desmond finds himself scrambling for something to say, and is surprised at what comes out of his mouth. "And you understand," he says. "No one else understands what it feels like."

 **-/-**

 **I started writing this and I was like aw, I really like the idea of Connor and Ratonhnhaké:ton working together (particularly because this way we get both an inside view of the tea, from** **Ratonhnhaké:ton, and an outside view, from Connor. Which isn't that important now, but it will be as** **Ratonhnhaké:ton starts drinking more of the tea and getting less and less human). And then Desmond just kind of showed up because I can'g help myself.**


	3. Chapter 3

Connor watches Ratonhnhaké:ton the entire time he's out from the tea. He has half an eye on the woods around them, just in case someone happens to find them, but the forest is absolutely still and silent. It's almost eerie, the way even animals seem to know to avoid the area.

Ratonhnhaké:ton does not move for several minutes, and then his face twists up a little and he growls at something he must be seeing in his dream. One hand moves up to his face like he's trying to brush something away, and Connor reaches out to push Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand away. Ratonhnhaké:ton resists a little, but doesn't wake, and Connor manages to get a look at his face. There are lines like some kind of tattoo burning themselves onto Ratonhnhaké:ton's face, dark and somehow menacing.

Connor frowns as he watches. He really wishes their mother had told them why the tea is supposed to be so dangerous. At least then he would know what to watch for. But all she'd said was _you are the son of a man of violence_ , and Connor has no idea what that means in practical terms.

Ratonhnhaké:ton sits up abruptly, body tense, so that his head cracks against Connor's and they both fall back. "S-sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton gasps, through his panting. He is already on his feet, though, pacing like he is too full of energy to keep still. Connor watches him bring his hands up to rest on top of his head, then back down to his side. His whole attitude is one of restless, undirected energy, an unexpected contrast to Connor as he sits still on the ground with his forehead aching where Ratonhnhaké:ton had hit him.

Slowly, he stands, wary of the sudden sharpness in the way his double moves. "Are you alright?"

"I have never felt energy like this," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and his eyes almost seem to glow for a moment as he turns back to Connor. Words tumble out of him, more words than Connor himself usually manages at one time. "You would not believe what I saw and felt while I was there."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Wherever my mind went when I drank the tea. And Connor, I saw- I saw-"

"What?"

"This tea is my destiny, I _know_ it now. I was always supposed to do this, I know it! I saw my descendant, while I was there. He- I'll have to tell you everything he said later, some of it was…" he lets out a deep sigh, half pulls away and then turns back. "It was a long story, but no more crazy than anything else that happens."

Maybe not in this world. Connor bites his tongue and only _thinks_ of how comfortably normal his own world is, and how much he suddenly wants to be back there. "What did you mean?" he asks instead. "About destiny?"

"He had-" Ratonhnhaké:ton touches the side of his head. "Ears like a wolf, like my spirit animal."

"You can pass things like that _on_?" Connor demands, a thread of horror creeping into his voice.

Ratonhnhaké:ton seems to notice, because he settles a little. "You don't approve," he says. "It worked, but you still don't think it's a good idea."

"It changed you."

"It was supposed to!"

And that is when the soldiers appear from nowhere to surround them. Or not nowhere, but the two of them have been so busy arguing with one another that neither of them had heard- and now they are surrounded.

Connor tenses, wishing he could help. But he is Ratonhnhaké:ton's own personal ghost in this world, and cannot help. Which… well, he's not quite sure if Ratonhnhaké:ton can fight the way he needs to, to take out the half dozen guards that have already surrounded them. Ratonhnhaké:ton is not an assassin. He can fight, but in Connor's opinion his technique is sloppy and untrained, more suited for hunting animals than people.

(Quite frankly, Connor is going to confiscate his hidden blades if Ratonhnhaké:ton keeps using them the way he has, it's like watching a child play with a sword)

And that's when Ratonhnhaké:ton simply vanishes. Connor almost has a heart attack right then and there, because _people don't just disappear for no reason_. There is a beat of absolute silence while the bluecoats all kind of look at each other, and Connor can just about understand where they're coming from. He doesn't know what's going on either.

The soldiers shuffle their feet. One of them clears his throat, and says "Well-"

And then as everyone turns to look at him, the wolf comes flying out of nowhere, jumping up at the soldier. But it isn't a wolf anymore, it's Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Connor blinks in numb confusion. He can't quite tell when the transition happened, and he wonders if that's because there is something about the wolf in Ratonhnhaké:ton still.

Either way, in less than thirty seconds, the soldiers all lie dead on the ground, torn apart and… and it's just a mess. Connor stares at Ratonhnhaké:ton, and reminds himself that he is not afraid.

-/-

For a long time after that, Ratonhnhaké:ton feels an uncomfortable distance growing between himself and Connor. But at least there is no time to talk about it immediately. They are swept unhappily from disaster to disaster, beginning with the death of the last few people from Ratonhnhaké:ton's village. He and Connor simply return to where they had left the others, and find them… dead. Dying, in the case of the clan mother. Ratonhnhaké:ton only has time to hold her hand, hear her dying words telling him to _find Putnam; find Arnold_. Names that mean nothing to Ratonhnhaké:ton, especially in light of the senseless death all around him. It is barely any time at all before he and Connor are the only ones left alive in the cave, standing alone in the silence.

"No."

The word is Ratonhnhaké:ton's, whispered from lips that feel too numb to even move. He wants to say something else, to say more for these people, this last reminder of him. Connor hesitatingly puts a hand on Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder, but Ratonhnhaké:ton shoves him away. "No!" he says again, and this time the word is angry and scared, loud in the silence here among the dead.

"I know it hurts," Connor says. "It hurts me too. But-"

Ratonhnhaké:ton snarls at him, doesn't listen as he stalks away. He doesn't go far, but even the other side of the cave is enough space for now. Because he doesn't really want to be alone. He just doesn't want to be comforted, doesn't want to be told that everything will be okay when it won't be. When he needs this anger to keep him moving forward and toward revenge.

Toward Washington.

"I'm going to kill him," Ratonhnhaké:ton snarls. "I'm going to-" but he doesn't have the words for what he's going to do to the king when he finds him, nothing but the idea of blood painting itself across his mind's eye. He does not realize that Connor is calling his name until he feels the slap.

It stings, but not much, and at least brings his mind back to the real world. He does not apologize for dropping out of the world for a minute, but Connor looks at him like he understands anyway.

"Washington will die," Connor says at last. "Because of what he has done to the people here, and because of what he has done to so many others. Don't worry about that."

"Do you know where to find him?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "In your world you _know_ him, don't you?"

"He is not so cruel at home," Connor says, a touch defensively. "Not kind, exactly. We have our differences. But nothing like this. As for where to find him…" he looks down at the corpses littering the ground around them. "She mentioned Putnam and Arnold. I imagine they are working with the king in this world."

"And you know where to find them?"

Connor shrugs. "We will find out."

"Not good enough!"

Connor sighs, and turns his back on the cave. "We should leave this place," he says. "It upsets you."

"And it doesn't upset you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demands. "These are our people, but I am the only one upset?"

Connor shakes his head. "I am sad," he says, slow and soft. "The world is a darker place with them gone."

"If you are not angry," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "I will be angry for the both of us."

Connor sighs. "That's what worries me."

They walk together for a while in silence after that. For a while, the burn of Ratonhnhaké:ton's anger is enough to keep him warm against the snow and the chill, but even that cannot sustain him for long. Eventually he starts to shiver, and then gradually he realizes that his shivering is from more than the cold, and that there are tears on his face, and that he is crying. So much pain, and suffering, all pointless. Except that for something without a point, it somehow manages to feel an awful lot like being stabbed.

He is not expecting comfort, and is certainly not expecting to feel Connor's arms around his shoulders. Ratonhnhaké:ton does not like to touch, and so he knows that Connor must not like it either. But just this once, he accepts what is offered, and cries into Connor's shoulder for far too long.

-/-

Connor is the one that suggests they stop for the night, but it is not so that they can find somewhere warm to sleep, out of the snow, as he tells Ratonhnhaké:ton. No, he had imagined he saw something as they passed through a small town on the way to the fort where they now know Benedict Arnold is hiding.

And Connor wants to know what it was that he saw, because it had seemed…

Impossible.

There are many people squatting in the abandoned places of the frontier now, and not even Ratonhnhaké:ton raises eyebrows anymore. Connor almost laughs as his double falls asleep, curled up on the floor of a house that would once have been horrified to have someone looking like him in their home. Apparently it only takes the end of civilization to break down the barriers between people.

Connor leaves Ratonhnhaké:ton safely sleeping, and goes to find what it was he had seen on the way in. The… memory, might be the right word. Connor walks toward it on feet that feel like they're made of lead, and stops in front of the flickering, wavering image that hangs like a sheet in the air. It is Connor's memory. Why is it Connor's memory? This isn't his world. But there he is, in the image, leaning forward to stab Lee.

Why this memory? Why here? Why now? Connor had spent so many years tracking him down, and in the end, killing him had changed nothing. It's just another death at his hands that Connor has to struggle with at night, he doesn't need the reminder.

He turns away from the sight of himself and Lee, and goes back to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

In the morning, they start walking again. Once or twice, Connor sees more of the odd not-memories hanging in the air around then, and Ratonhnhaké:ton apparently sees them too, judging by the tentative glances he sends Connor's way. "Are those-"

"Not some of my proudest memories," Connor says. They have already passed the memory of the day that he argued with his father and Washington, and the day he left his village to train as an assassin under Achilles. Connor wonders, if that last scene had turned out differently and he had stayed, if he would be more like Ratonhnhaké:ton now. Or do the differences between them come from Washington, and the disaster that is this world?

"Your world looks strange," Ratonhnhaké:ton observes.

"I do not think I can take that seriously," Connor says. "Coming from the man that can turn into some kind of invisible wolf."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiles like this is a compliment, and they keep going. And then after a while, Connor gets bored. It shouldn't be possible for boredom, trapped in another world and hunting down a mad king, in the company of another version of himself that is half wolf by now. But they are really just walking across open fields and forests, with nothing at all to distract them. It's dull.

"Hey," he says.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him curiously.

"I want to teach you how to use father's blades."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks down at the bracers on his arms. "I have been using them," he points out.

"Yes," Connor says, biting down the urge to say something rude. "But these are not just weapons like any other knives. If you use them correctly, you can take out targets unseen, and you can move more quickly than you would carrying ordinary weapons. It's good when you can't be caught, or when you are facing a lot of enemies at once."

"But I can be invisible," Ratonhnhaké:ton points out. "And I can fight as many as I need to- I'm strong now."

"This is a different kind of strength," Connor says. He hesitates, then says, "Let me tell you about the assassins."

-/-

Desmond thinks the assassins sound different when Connor talks about them. Not like the assassins he used to know before running away from home. The assassins Connor is familiar with sound more like a brotherhood, or a family. A real family, and Desmond can't help his jealousy.

He wishes he could do more than just sit and watch while Connor and Ratonhnhaké:ton travel, Connor teaching Ratonhnhaké:ton as they go. He is jealous of the way they seem to be getting closer, while Desmond is trapped as nothing but an observer. He almost wishes Ratonhnhaké:ton would drink the tea again, just so Desmond could talk to him.

He's lonely. When he's awake… or, out of the animus, anyway… he has no one to talk to but Vidic and Lucy. And while Lucy is the kind of girl Desmond thinks he would have liked talking to, under any kind of normal circumstances, these are very far from normal. And Vidic keeps calling him Mutt, which would have been insulting even if he hadn't also kidnapped Desmond. Meanwhile, Ratonhnhaké:ton at least knows that Desmond is looking at things through his eyes, but when they can't communicate it doesn't help Desmond's loneliness much.

But then, when they are nearly at the fort where Arnold will apparently be found, they are cornered by soldiers again. Connor again waits on the sidelines, obviously frustrated by his own lack of agency, as Ratonhnhaké:ton does the fighting for both of them. Desmond can't help noticing, though, that Ratonhnhaké:ton is at least making an effort to use the techniques Connor has been showing him. He grins a little, or at least pretends to. It's hard to do things like that, without a face of his own to actually smile with.

Ratonhnhaké:ton grunts in pain, falling back several steps as a soldier kicks him in the stomach. The soldiers are laughing at him, stepping over their brothers lying dead on the ground, and that is when Desmond feels Ratonhnhaké:ton get really desperate. He reaches deep inside himself, searching for something, anything, that will get him out of this mess.

He finds the wolves. Desmond watches for half a startled second, amazed as ghostly wolves come pouring out of Ratonhnhaké:ton and toward the soldiers. And then- before he has a chance to second guess himself, because this is almost certainly not a good idea- Desmond seizes his chance, and _follows them_. After all, he is partly wolf himself.

It is the strangest feeling, separating from Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind and into an insubstantial version of his own body. His legs shake unsteadily under him, and Desmond would have fallen if Connor hadn't grabbed him by the shoulders to hold him up. They stare at each other, both entirely surprised to find the other standing there. Distantly, Desmond can still hear Lucy and Vidic (mostly Vidic, actually) shouting at him, but he thinks viciously that they shouldn't be upset by all this. They're still going to be able to see what they want, after all.

"Desmond!" Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and Desmond manages to get his body well enough under control to stand on his own. He turns to see the last few soldiers lying dead, and the other wolves Ratonhnhaké:ton had summoned standing around him.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Desmond says, in a voice that is barely even audible.

"How did you do that?" Connor demands. His eyes flick from Desmond's face to his ears, and then to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"I called the wolves," Ratonhnhaké:ton answers, because Desmond is still busy getting over the surprise of _being in another century_.

"No," Connor says. "I can kind of understand those." He points to the wolves at Ratonhnhaké:ton's feet. "But what is _he_ doing here?"

"He's basically a wolf," Ratonhnhaké:ton argues, and Desmond nods his support.

Again, Connor looks at his ears. "Oh. Well, sure. Why not, at this point?"

The wolves start to flicker and fade out around Ratonhnhaké:ton's feet, and Desmond feels something pulling at his own mind, trying to draw him back as well. He fights it, and after a while the pressure eases. He would rather stand on his own two feet than inside anyone else's.

"So does this mean you'll be coming with us as well?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

"I think so," Desmond tells him.

"Then let's get going," Connor says, and onward they go.

Back in the real world, Vidic curses with more creativity than Desmond would have given him credit for. Then he sighs, long and loud, and grunts, "Fine. As long as you keep going."


	4. Chapter 4

Connor tries to avoid the little shimmers that indicate where his memory fragments are. It's not that he doesn't want to be reminded of home, it's just that… it's so hard to see them and not be there. Connor wants to go home.

So he pushes past the other things he sees, and doesn't answer Ratonhnhaké:ton or Desmond when they ask what the problem is. "It doesn't matter," is all he says, no matter how many times they ask. "We just need to keep going."

And he sees the looks they give each other, obviously worried. It would be a little annoying if it wasn't so nice to have someone looking out for him, for once. Still, neither of them makes him talk until they finally get to the fort. Or at least, Ratonhnhaké:ton does.

"I'm going by myself," Ratonhnhaké:ton announces as they get closer. "Neither of you are really here. You can't fight, you'll just distract me."

"Thanks," Desmond grumbles. His ears twitch in irritation, and Connor catches himself staring. Neither of the other two seem at all bothered by them, but men aren't meant to be wolves, and maybe Connor is just closed minded but Desmond makes him feel definitely uncomfortable. "Way to spread the love."

"What?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks, pausing for a second in his preparations.

"Never mind," Desmond says. "Hey, Connor, do you think we even can stay here? I mean, how do we know we can separate from Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

"We did when I climbed the willow," Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"That's not as much distance as there is between here and the fort," Connor agrees. "If you're going to insist on going alone, we should at least test how far we can get from one another first."

"Fine," Ratonhnhaké:ton sighs. "Wait here, then. I'll go a little way out and then come back." And without another word, he walks off.

Which leaves Connor alone with Desmond.

"So." Desmond leans against a tree, trying and failing to look casual. "You don't like me very much, do you?"

"You're fine."

Desmond makes a face. "Come on," he says, pointing to his ears. "I've had these all my life, I know what it looks like when people don't like me."

Connor sighs and relents a little. "Sorry," he says. "But they're strange."

Desmond shrugs and looks away. "I know," he says. But he sounds miffed.

"Sorry." Connor doesn't apologize often, but he and Desmond are stuck together for the foreseeable future, invisibly tied to Ratonhnhaké:ton. They might as well get along.

Desmond doesn't say anything for about a minute, and then he starts talking without any warning. "It's funny," he says. "The only thing that ever freaks people out is the ears."

"What else is there?" Connor asks after a beat. He's torn between curiosity and the intense desire to not know whatever Desmond is about to tell him.

"I got to see through Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes for a little while," Desmond says. "I saw what the world looks like to everyone else and it's different for me. I don't trust my eyes. They lie to me. The whole world pretty much looks blue and yellow. I'm not great with details, especially at a distance. But it's not like I miss things. My sense of smell and my hearing are way better than they should be."

"So what's the world look like to you?"

Desmond turns back and looks at him. "You're afraid."

"That's not what I asked-"

"That's what I see. Smell. You smell scared." He points somewhere back toward the forest. "There's a deer on the trail that way. I can hear it running, and the heartbeat. It's going to die soon, and it doesn't know yet. I can smell a whole pack of wolves tracking it. They're hungry, they haven't eaten much this winter. Probably because Washington's men have been overhunting the forest. That's what the world is like to me."

Connor nods, unsettled more by the flat tone in Desmond's voice than the description. Although he has to admit that's a little unnerving. But Desmond sounds so tired that Connor feels compelled to do something. He walks over to Desmond, hesitates with his hand outstretched. "Can I?"

Desmond's bark of laughter is loud in the near silence of the forest, echoing off the trees. "Have you ever scratched a dog behind the ears?" he asks. "And then you try to stop because you have something else to do, and the dog gives you this look like you just kicked it in the balls, and you're stuck there petting it for ages?"

Connor smiles a little and nods. Desmond smiles a little too. "Well that's because it feels ridiculously good."

"So that's a yes?"

"Only if you have half an hour to kill."

He doesn't know what he's expecting to feel when he finally brushes his fingers against the back of Desmond's ears, but it still surprises him when they feel real. Warm and soft, and if Connor closes his eyes it's easy to forget that these ears belong to a human. There's the sound of something falling off in the distance, and Desmond's ears twitch toward it. They're tense under Connor's hands, constantly tense until Connor hesitantly starts rubbing. Like an animal, except an animal wouldn't start laughing self-consciously, an animal wouldn't look at Connor the way Desmond does. His face all mixed up and confused, like he wants to ask Connor to stop but can't make the words come out. Like he hates Connor for treating him like a pet, hates himself for wanting it, hates Ratonhnhaké:ton for passing the ears on in the first place.

So Connor averts his eyes so he won't see, and rubs Desmond's ears until the tenseness goes away and he starts to relax. And when Ratonhnhaké:ton comes back with news about how far he can get from them, they step away from each other, and say nothing, and from then on, they are friends.

Connor takes some considerable pride from the fact that Desmond never lets Ratonhnhaké:ton near his ears, and always comes to Connor when he needs comfort.

-/-

"Vidic's a templar, you know."

Desmond looks at Lucy and nods. "Sure," he says. "I know." He doesn't, but he's not really surprised. Nothing would surprise him anymore, because he's been kidnapped and tortured and somehow all that has led to meeting two of the best friends he's ever had. Or one best friend, maybe. They're sort of the same person.

In the same way Desmond is sort of human.

Wait.

Vidic is a templar?

"Shit," Desmond moans, covering his face. His whole family has been assassins since- well, if he'd lived in Connor's world, he'd say for at least that long, but since Ratonhnhaké:ton isn't an assassin, Desmond isn't sure how far back that heritage goes. Either way, Vidic is going to super for sure kill him. Even more than he would have before. "So between him and the king, I'm about 9000% dead by now, right?"

"Probably," Lucy says quietly. She lets this hang in the air between them for a minute, and then, to Desmond's amazement, throws him a lifeline. "Unless you help me break out of here."

"What? Are you- you're serious?"

She nods, and folds one finger back against her hand- an age old sign of the assassins. "I have contacts," she says. "We can leave as soon as you finish your animus session tonight."

"I love you Lucy," Desmond says earnestly, and Lucy straight up laughs at him. But she blushes at the same time, which is weird because he'd just been kidding- normal girls don't like boys with wolf ears.

"Shush," she says, as the door slides open and Vidic walks in. "It'll all be over soon."

The day starts out the same as the previous few have, with Vidic complaining about the quality of the footage they're getting. Apparently, the fact that Desmond is no longer actually in Ratonhnhaké:ton's head is garbling the footage the animus can actually record. It doesn't look any different to Desmond, although… he supposes that maybe it does. It's not like he wants to be in the animus, but he will regret leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton and Connor without even a word of goodbye. They have been very nice to him, more than maybe anyone since his grandpa died. But if Desmond so much as hints that this is his last animus session, Vidic will know.

So he says nothing. Luckily, the others are distracted with finally reaching the fort and taking out Ratonhnhaké:ton's target. Desmond tries to pay attention, but it's hard when he can't do anything to help anyway. He trails behind the others, preoccupied until suddenly he is not. Ratonhnhaké:ton kills Arnold, and the scent of blood on the air forces Desmond to pay attention again. He can't help it. The smell catches something in his brain, and every sense expands in expectation of a hunt. Desmond can see Ratonhnhaké:ton looking down at the dead man with eyes wide and dilated from the same kind of instinct.

But he also sees something else, or smells it rather, the angry scent of a man coming closer. "Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Desmond shouts. "Turn around!"

But Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't move, doesn't even seem to hear, and the man comes out of nowhere to hit him on the back of the head. And Ratonhnhaké:ton crumples senselessly to the ground, obviously out cold. That is the last thing Desmond sees before the memory ends and the animus ejects him back to the modern world. And he almost opens his mouth to ask if he can go back in, to make sure Ratonhnhaké:ton is okay, but he doesn't get the chance.

"Vidic's gone for the night," Lucy says quietly. "Left me to clean things up. It's time to go."

He may not ever get another chance. So Desmond nods and swings himself off the table, following Lucy without so much as a glance behind him.

-/-

Connor keeps his silent, pointless watch over Ratonhnhaké:ton as they travel. He hates that he can do nothing to help, as Putnam mocks the sleeping form of his other self, laughing at every fresh insult. Eventually, to Connor's enormous relief, Ratonhnhaké:ton wakes, and gradually shakes off the pain in his head. He is hunched over on all fours, like standing would take too much.

"Are you alright?" Connor asks.

Ratonhnhaké:ton growls at him, and for a second Connor thinks he won't answer. Then Ratonhnhaké:ton shakes his head to clear it, and manages actual words. "Yes," he says. Quiet, so Putnam won't hear. "I am fine. I will be fine."

"Do you want to talk?"

"Not really."

Connor doesn't much want to talk either, but there are maybe some things that need discussion. It would help if Desmond were here, but he has a habit of vanishing at awkward moments. Says it's because of the animus. Connor still has no clear idea of what an animus is, but he knows it makes Desmond's visits unpredictable.

Connor has no idea how to start a conversation, so the ride into Boston is silent apart from Putnam's continued mocking and threats. After a while, Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes find Connor's across the floor of the cage they're trapped in, and they share a look of weary exasperation. The man is almost enough to make prison a destination worth looking forward to.

Ratonhnhaké:ton almost smiles, and Connor almost smiles back.

When they eventually reach the prison, Connor hangs back while Ratonhnhaké:ton is chained and dragged to his cell. He has no desire to be locked in the cell as well, particularly when he can help. Not physically, but if he can see more than Ratonhnhaké:ton can, that will be some help.

"I'm going to see what else is here," he says when he and Ratonhnhaké:ton are alone, apart from a single guard. The man is busy mumbling to himself in the corner, so Connor doesn't worry about Ratonhnhaké:ton's answer being heard.

"Be quick," Ratonhnhaké:ton says quietly. He brings one hand up to grip the closest bar of his cell. "I do not like being caged."

Neither does Connor. Some things don't change. "I will be," he promises.

His exploration of the prison passes quickly, at first. There is a truly sorry collection of humanity, people of all classes and colors, gathered together in the cells, many in such poor condition that Connor can't even tell if they are man or woman. It is hard to see any similarity or common point between them, unless it is that they have somehow offended the king.

But there are one or two familiar faces. Kanen'tó:kon sits in a cell barely thirty feet away from Ratonhnhaké:ton, looking tired and hungry but better than most here. Connor stops in the doorway, looking for a moment in silence. It is hard. To see the friend he has killed, alive again. And now he is the ghost.

Hard. Many things are hard.

Connor curses the day the apples were ever made, and moves on.

He wanders farther into the jail, down a flight of stairs he would never have noticed if it had not glowed faintly in his eagle vision. Down here are men that look like they have not seen the light of day in months or years. Shriveled, hopeless samples of humanity at its worst.

All but one. In the very back is a man who stands proud and tall even in his cell, and stares at Connor almost as though he can see…

Connor crumbles under his gaze, momentarily horrified beyond reason. His mind goes numb, he cannot _think_. And then he cannot stop, trying to imagine the possibilities. What chain of events could have led to this man being here? Mother had said—he should be _dead_ , even in this world.

Connor turns and runs back upstairs. He does not stop until he has returned to Ratonhnhaké:ton's cell—and of course Ratonhnhaké:ton has already found a way to free himself.

Ratonhnhaké:ton considers not saying anything. It would be so much easier not to say anything, to just walk off and let the man rot in his cell deep below the ground. But he has never been the kind of man to make things easier for himself, no, he has always sought out what is _difficult_ , and so he shakes his head when Ratonhnhaké:ton says they should leave.

"No," he says.

"You… want to stay in this prison?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

"No," Connor says again. "No, not at all. I just—we can't leave alone." He's stumbling over his words, anxious and flustered. He doesn't sound at all like himself, even to his own ears. "When I went to look around, I saw—there were two people. We need to free them both."

"Who?"

"Kanen'tó:kon, to start with," Connor says, because that is the easier place to start. Ratonhnhaké:ton smiles at his friend's name.

"He is here?"

"And relatively unharmed."

"Good! And who else?"

Connor takes a deep breath. "Our father," he says.

 **-/-**

 **Sorry for the short chapter; midterms are coming up and I haven't had as much time to write as usual. And anyway, this seems like a pretty good place to leave things hanging. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Ratonhnhaké:ton's earliest memories are dim, shadowed and dark from the years between then and now. But he remembers… something. An old man—but then, everyone had seemed old, when he was that small—he would come by only once in a while, to visit the village. He remembers the way the man had spoken to him, awkward and stilted, like he didn't quite know how to talk to a child. Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought he was funny and different, and he'd been sad when the man stopped coming.

It wasn't until many years later, when he was old enough to recognize the way his mother and that man had looked at each other, that Ratonhnhaké:ton began to think that maybe the man had been his father. But by then, too many years had passed, and his mother clearly wasn't planning to tell him anything. Without any way to find him, Ratonhnhaké:ton allowed himself to forget about his father.

Now, he remembers. "Mother said she was dead," he says, confused. "Why would she lie?"

"I don't know." Connor's voice is stiff and unhappy.

"Maybe you're wrong," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Maybe the man you saw here isn't—"

"I know what our father looks like," Connor interrupts. His voice rises, loud enough that they would have been caught, if there was anyone else around that could hear him. "I know that's him."

"You know him?" They stare at each other from across the bars in the cell, and then Connor grunts and turns away.

"Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" Ratonhnhaké:ton reaches out and grabs the nearest bar in front of him. He needs it, just to keep himself from falling over because this is _their father_ they're talking about, and Connor is throwing all that away for no apparent reason. There's something in Ratonhnhaké:ton's throat, tight and hard, making it almost impossible to speak. He's just lost his mother, and that's awful, but suddenly there's this chance right in front of him to actually get to know the parent he's long assumed was dead. "This is our _father_ , Connor! We have to break him out when we leave."

Connor's face twists up for a second, before smoothing back into something unreadable. "I suppose we could," he says reluctantly.

Some of Connor's attitude finally manages to break through the burst of excitement Ratonhnhaké:ton had felt on first hearing their father is here. "What's the problem?" he asks. "What is so bad about the man?"

"He's… it's complicated."

"Tell me."

Connor looks like he's not planning to say anything, but Ratonhnhaké:ton is desperate. Maybe Connor can see some of that on his face, because he rubs a hand across his eyes and nods. "In my world, I killed him."

"Why?"

"It's complicated."

"I'm not a child!" Ratonhnhaké:ton bursts out, and his shout is loud enough to attract the attention of the bluecoat that's supposed to be guarding him. He comes over, mumbling incoherently (some disturbing mantra about the king that Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't like), and bangs on the bars.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him, and growls somewhere deep in his chest. He's angry about being caught and caged, angry at Connor for keeping secrets, angry at this guard for just being here right now. And in his anger, it is so easy to reach out in his mind for the wolf, to slip away from being human and become _wolf_.

He crouches on his haunches against the floor, waiting as the man swears and fumbles with his keys, as if he thinks Ratonhnhaké:ton is just somewhere out of sight, and he'll be able to see him if he steps inside.

The moment he's inside the cell, Ratonhnhaké:ton leaps onto him, and he's still angry, and then his teeth are in the man's throat and he can taste blood, and then the man isn't moving anymore. He doesn't know how long he would have kept biting and clawing, except that suddenly Connor is there, throwing Ratonhnhaké:ton back and onto the floor.

"Stop!" he says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks he almost sounds afraid. Connor crouches down in front of him, and for a moment Ratonhnhaké:ton can't understand why the other man is so tall. Then he blinks, and refocuses, and realizes he's on all fours. And there is blood all over him, down his face and on his hands.

"What happened?" he asks.

"You were a wolf," Connor says quietly. "I think. You looked like one. I don't know…" he trails off, shaking his head. "Even Desmond never did that, and I thought he was the least human person I'd ever met."

He stands, and Ratonhnhaké:ton copies the movement uncertainly. It feels wrong to be back on two feet, and now that he's thinking about it, he can't stop feeling the dead man's blood all over him. Ratonhnhaké:ton half turns to look over his shoulder at the body, but Connor blocks his way.

"No," he says. "You don't want to see that."

But Ratonhnhaké:ton still gets a glimpse of what's left of the man's face, mauled into an unrecognizable mess. He staggers, feels like vomiting, and Connor catches him. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know," Connor says. "Come on. We need to move if you want to take both father and Kanen'tó:kon with us when we leave."

"Which one are we going for first?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

"Father," Connor says. He still sounds unhappy with the idea, but not as much as he had before. Maybe it seems like a less dangerous conversation topic than what Ratonhnhaké:ton had just done to that bluecoat. "We'll have to backtrack to get Kanen'tó:kon, but from there it's a straight shot out of here."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods, and lets Connor lead the way. He knows they are going down, but he isn't paying any closer attention than that. Still, he's pretty sure they've been walking a while when he hears a sharp intake of breath, and someone calling his name.

When he looks up, there he is. Their father. And Ratonhnhaké:ton recognizes him instantly, knows him as the man from his oldest memories. He is pale as a ghost, wasted and emancipated from months or years in this cell. But still, Ratonhnhaké:ton knows him. "Father," he says, and pushes away from Connor to stumble toward the man.

"You're a mess," his father says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton nods.

"It was hard to get here," he says, and that doesn't even begin to cover it but his father nods like that's enough of an explanation. "I—"

"Here," Connor says quietly, pressing a ring of keys into Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand. Going by the tacky feel of blood on the metal, he must have taken it off the dead bluecoat. "Get him out of there." Ratonhnhaké:ton almost answers him, but then stops to consider what his father would think of him talking to himself. He nods instead.

When the cage door opens, Ratonhnhaké:ton finds himself pressed up against his father, supporting him as the older man stumbles.

"There are others here," Connor points out softly, gesturing to the hunched figures in the other cages around the walls. "They deserve their freedom as well."

"Leave them, Connor," their father says without looking. He is already struggling to move onward, so that Ratonhnhaké:ton has no choice but to move with him, with Connor walking behind with an expression of absolute confusion on his face. "They've already given up hope; they're as good as dead already."

-/-

The world outside the building where Desmond has been held for the past few days is cold. He flips up the hood on his borrowed hoodie, grateful for the excuse. If it had been a little bit warmer, he would have looked like a creep with the hood pulled up, especially in the middle of the day, but as it is…

"So where are we going?" he asks Lucy.

"Somewhere safe," she says. They're walking close together, close enough to whisper. The smell of Lucy right up against him is… distracting. She doesn't wear any perfumes or lotions, so Desmond can smell every individual scent on her. The sterility of Vidic's lab still clings to her, but there's a sweetness to her as well, something natural that Desmond _very_ much likes.

"Where is safe, exactly?"

"I'm not sure I should tell you."

"Stop," Desmond says suddenly. There's a new smell coming, one he recognizes immediately. He reaches out to grab her elbow, pulling her back.

"Listen," Lucy says. "I know you don't have any reason to trust me right now, but I promise. I'm taking you to good people."

"It's not that—" but the smell is too close now for them to avoid, and Desmond only points down the street in silent explanation.

"Oh," Lucy whispers, and they go down together. Down onto their knees, heads bowed. Desmond squeezes Lucy's hand and she squeezes back, hard. Her breath comes in rattling gasps, and Desmond is not in much better shape.

But at least they are not alone. All the way down the street, everyone else is kneeling. A few press their heads to the ground, and a woman almost directly across the street from Desmond is trembling so hard she nearly falls over.

And then the riders come down the street. Three men in full military dress, high ranking by the decorations on their uniforms, riding on horseback, with a full squad of lower ranking shoulders behind them. No one in their right mind would dare look at a high ranking member of the king's army, they all know the rules. Knees on the ground, eyes on your knees, and you don't lose your head. Even the children on the street are quiet and still.

But there's no rule against looking at foot soldiers. Desmond looks up, still squeezing Lucy's hand like she's a lifeline, and studies them. It's funny, almost, but also scary, because they haven't changed at all since Ratonhnhaké:ton's time. Different people, obviously, but the same uniforms, the same formations, the same expressions of dull obedience stamped on their faces.

And behind them are the prisoners. People kidnapped off the streets and taken to the king for… whatever it was he used them for. No one knew, because no one ever made it back alive. Desmond had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of them in the years since he'd left home, but not like this.

Before the animus, his only reaction had been along the lines of _thank god it's not me_. Today, everything is different. When the soldiers and their captives have passed them farther up the street and the people around them start to stand, Desmond stays on his knees. "This has to stop," he says.

Lucy, who had been about to stand, comes back down to kneel in front of him. "Maybe this isn't the right place to talk about this," she suggests.

"No," Desmond says, but at least he still has enough sense to keep his voice down. "I need to talk or I don't think I'll be able to keep going. I need—"

"Okay." She smiles, and Desmond realizes she's still holding his hand. "So talk."

"Maybe… I don't know if leaving was the right thing to do," he admits.

"Vidic would have killed you."

"But how many people has… how many people _will_ the king kill?" Desmond asks. "Vidic wants to stop him."

"That doesn't mean you have to sacrifice yourself for them to live," Lucy says. "And trust me, the templars would not be any better than… well, alright. I guess they would be better than the king, but they would still be _bad_."

"But—"

"I'm taking you to the assassins," Lucy says, dropping her voice still further and speaking all in a rush. "Alright? If you need to be a hero, I'm sure they will be more than happy to let you do it there. They have an animus, better than what Vidic's been able to do, by all accounts. But we need to keep moving."

He nods, and lets her haul him to his feet. "I don't need to be a hero," he says. "Just for the record. I just want to help."

"Sounds like a hero to me," Lucy says, and she's probably teasing but her voice gets inside Desmond and it's like something warm inside him. Nobody has ever called him a hero before.

They start walking again.

-/-

Haytham refuses to say anything until they've rescued Kanen'tó:kon and left the prison, which Connor thinks is just absolutely typical of the man. He very much wants to throttle his father (or stab him in the neck. Again) but for Ratonhnhaké:ton's sake, he restrains himself. Besides, he supposes there are some questions that need answering.

Such as how their father knows Connor's name. In this world, Ratonhnhaké:ton never became an assassin, never went to Achilles, never changed his name. Haytham shouldn't have known to call Connor by it even if—and this is a problem as well, of course—he is somehow able to see him.

By the time Kanen'tó:kon has gone to meet up with allies, Connor is absolutely done with his father's smug superiority. "You," he says sharply, crossing his arms and glaring. "You need to explain how you can see me right now."

"Connor," Ratonhnhaké:ton objects. "Can't this wait?"

"No," Connor says. "It's a reasonable question."

"It is," Haytham agrees. His voice has the sound of a man that hasn't had to talk much lately, and Connor notices that Haytham won't actually look at him.

"Do you have an answer?"

Haytham pulls at his filthy shirt, until he wraps his hand around an amulet hanging against his chest. Connor recognizes it at once, as the thing he'd taken from Lee's dead body and then buried on the homestead. "Oh," he says tiredly. "Another piece of Eden." He narrows his eyes, thinking hard. "So I suppose there's two of you in that head? My father and Ratonhnhaké:ton's?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Haytham says. He sounds entirely too calm, for a man that has just been broken out of prison by his son he's never met and the invisible, alternate universe version of said son. "I had already been in that cell for—"

A long pause.

"Quite some time. Then I woke with another world's worth of memories in my head. Is that a satisfactory explanation?"

"Not really."

Haytham almost smiles. "Well then, you understand how I've been feeling since I got these memories. They're there, they're not mine, but they are. That's all I know, so now—" And Ratonhnhaké:ton is the one that reaches out and catches him as he starts to sway. "If it's not too much trouble, I would appreciate a meal and some real sleep."

"Of course," Ratonhnhaké:ton says quickly, and it's hard for Connor to argue that the shaking shell of a man in front of them doesn't need food or a bed.

"Alright," he agrees grudgingly.

"Thank you, Connor," Haytham says vaguely, and Connor can't quite decide how he feels about that approval.

Between himself and Ratonhnhaké:ton, they manage to support Haytham until they find an abandoned house with the walls and roof still mostly intact. It's good enough for the moment, and Haytham is certainly in no mood to complain. Ratonhnhaké:ton spends a few minutes fussing around the house, hunting down anything edible, while Connor chooses to check for other entrances and make sure they won't be surprised later.

The two of them finish at nearly the same time, and meet back in the hallway, outside the room where Haytham is sleeping. "Is it alright?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks, with more hesitation than Connor is used to hearing from him.

"Is what alright?"

"You don't like father," Ratonhnhaké:ton says dejectedly. "I can tell."

"Yes, well. People don't usually kill those they like."

Connor means it as a joke, but he doesn't joke often and he's obviously not very good at it. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't show so much as a hint of a smile. "Connor."

"Sorry, continue."

"I really want to know him," Ratonhnhaké:ton continues. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Connor sighs and shakes his head. "No," he says softly. "If you can figure out a way to make this work… that's all the better for you. I admire that. Father and I never got along, and it's too late for that now. I hope you can do better." But he shakes his head, and does not quite look at Ratonhnhaké:ton while he finishes his thought. "Just… don't be surprised if it doesn't work out."

Silence descends between them for a while. Then Ratonhnhaké:ton says, "I think father drank the tea."

Connor thinks on this. "That would explain what mother said," he admits. "When she told you not to do so. 'You are the son of a man of violence,' do you remember?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. "And he smells a little less than human. Or different, maybe. Like me, or Desmond."

"You think he's part wolf?"

"Or part something else," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. And after that the conversation dies completely, as the two of them go quiet and still, and stare at the door that blocks their father from their view.


	6. Chapter 6

There are assassins in the place where Lucy takes Desmond, and he's not sure what to expect from that—people like his parents, militant and paranoid? Or… well, probably they won't be anything like Connor, which would be Desmond's only other experience with the brotherhood. So he has no expectations in mind apart from a general sense of unease as he follows Lucy along the streets of a city he doesn't even recognize.

"It's just up here," Lucy says at last, pointing at a nondescript building at the end of a block full of other, similar buildings.

"Finally," Desmond sighs. His legs are aching. "I feel like we've been walking for hours."

"Sorry I couldn't steal a horse," Lucy jokes, and Desmond flushes at the thought of sharing a horse with Lucy, riding pressed up against each other—

He calls his mind back forcefully before that particular tangent can go any farther. "Yea, well…" he fumbles for something intelligent to say, preferably on some other subject. "Maybe if we can get rid of the king, whatever government replaces him will let everyone have cars, instead of just the people he likes best."

"Yea, right," Lucy laughs, and Desmond feels his face flush. He focuses on making sure his hood is pulled up and over his ears. This is his only chance to make a first impression, after all.

They walk up two flights of stairs and Lucy opens a door. There's a moment of silence, and then suddenly Lucy and another woman are talking excitedly, hugging each other and doing that thing women do when they haven't seen each other in a long time. Desmond watches through wide eyes, overwhelmed, until a man steps up next to him with his hand outstretched. "So you must be Desmond?"

"I—yea." He shakes the outstretched hand clumsily. "Sorry, I don't know who you are."

"Shaun Hastings," he says, then raises his voice and says, "The sane one, yea?" pointedly to the two women.

"Sure," calls the one Desmond doesn't know, and the happy reunion doesn't stop at all.

"Women," Shaun scoffs, and Lucy flips him the bird in response. But at least she pulls away and calms down a little.

"Sorry," she says. "Desmond, this is Rebecca; Rebecca, Desmond."

"Hey," Desmond says. He flushes and sticks his hands in his pockets as Rebecca grins at him. "So… not that I'm not grateful, but what happens now?"

"You mentioned wanting to go back in the animus," Lucy says, and Desmond shrugs.

"It's not that I want to. It's just that the king needs to be stopped, and that seems like the only way to do it."

"You're a brave guy," Rebecca says. "And if you're sure you want that, then yea, we have an animus you can use."

"And we'd be happy to get rid of the king," Shaun adds, twisting his face up into an annoyed scowl. "Bastard."

He says it in a whisper, but the other three shush him quickly anyway. Insulting the king like that, anywhere in the king's borders, is a death wish—he has eyes and ears everywhere. Even though this place is supposed to be safe… it's not worth tempting fate.

"I'll get things set up with the animus," Rebecca says, into the sudden silence. "Hasn't been used in a while."

"Thanks, Becca," Lucy says. "Need help?"

Rebecca nods, and the two of them retreat to work on what looks (to Desmond's untrained eye) like an extremely ugly red chair. He turns to Shaun, starts trying to make small talk. "So," he says. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"What, did the accent give it away?" he asks.

"Sorry." Desmond isn't sure if Shaun's actually angry for him, or if he just sounds like that all the time. But he apologizes anyway. "I just wondered what it's like. Outside of Washington's rule?"

Shaun sighs, sitting down. Desmond does the same, slightly hesitant. "Different," he says. "Technology's generally better. There's… what, maybe a hundred cars in Washington's domain? There were more than that in the town where I grew up. Computers won't run you a year's salary, either. A lot of people think the king's been holding things back here because he's been around a couple hundred years already, and he's not all that comfortable with new things."

"What else?" Desmond asks eagerly.

"Well, it's not illegal to enter or leave most other countries, for one thing," Shaun grumbles. "People are generally not kidnapped off the streets, and that whole bowing thing that happens here? Doesn't really go on anywhere else."

"So in some other country you could watch the king or… president? Is that a thing other countries have?"

"Presidents," Shaun says. "Prime ministers."

"But you could look at them, without having to kneel?" When Shaun nods, Desmond lets out a breath. "So why would you come here?"

"Because this is where the assassins sent me," Shaun says, but he's looking at Rebecca, and Desmond nods. Well, at least that makes sense. "So, do you have any other questions, or can I get back to work?"

"Um… just one." He hesitates, then pulls his hood down. "Are there people… like this? Like me, anywhere else in the world?"

Shaun barely looks surprised. Maybe Lucy had warned him, or maybe he's just good at hiding what he's feeling. "No," he says. "That's definitely not something you see outside America."

"Oh," Desmond says, and lets Shaun get back to work. After a while, Lucy comes over to tell him the animus is ready for him, and Desmond is almost grateful to climb in. Things here are confusing, and he can feel three pairs of eyes on him, every time they think he's not looking. He wants to send his mind back in time, to Ratonhnhaké:ton and Connor, because Ratonhnhaké:ton understands and Connor is sort of starting to get it. He settles into the chair as Rebecca starts telling him about the differences he'll see between this version of the animus and the one he'd used at Abstergo.

"Do you think it'll be able to record footage?" Lucy asks, when Rebecca pauses for breath. "Vidic's animus couldn't deal with whatever Desmond was doing, and we weren't able to see anything that happened."

"Sure," Rebecca says enthusiastically. "And if it doesn't work at the beginning, I'll figure something out."

"Great," Lucy says. "Thanks, Becca."

She nods, and grins at Desmond. "Plugging you in now," she announces.

-/-

Haytham is still exhausted when morning comes around again, which doesn't surprise him much. He doesn't know exactly how long he's been in Washington's cell, but he knows Ratonhnhaké:ton had just been learning to speak when he'd been captured. Now he's thirty, at a guess. Connor looks a little older, but that might just be the eyes. Cold, especially when he turns them on Haytham _(Colder than they have ever looked before)._

Regardless of the exact dates, it has been a very long time since Haytham slept somewhere safe ( _if this place truly is safe, with Connor on the other side of the door, fully armed and having already proven himself willing to kill his father)._ He can't stop himself from jerking awake in terror at every sound _(no, not fear, it's not fear or terror when that same instinct has saved his life hundreds of times, from soldiers that are bored or angry or afraid, looking to amuse themselves by killing some prisoners)._

Well, maybe it has. But that doesn't mean Haytham is any less afraid.

The pressure in his head is uncomfortable as well, the weight of two lifetimes worth of memories where there should be one. It is not so much that there are two distinct people in his head, as he is _one_ person with all these stray thoughts that keep starting arguments with himself. It's very annoying.

The door opens and Haytham is relieved to see Ratonhnhaké:ton in the doorway instead of Connor. This version of his son is _(strange)_ his, and the sight of him doesn't make Haytham irrationally angry. "Good morning," he says, once he has managed to compose himself. He does trust Ratonhnhaké:ton more than Connor, but he hasn't fully trusted anyone since he was ten years old and his father died. No reason to let anyone know exactly how weak he's feeling at the moment.

"Not exactly," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "The king's men spent the whole night searching for us, and there's no sign they'll stop anytime soon."

"As expected."

"I suppose. _(Where's Connor_? _)_ " And there it is again. Because Haytham doesn't care much for Connor, but there is still that other piece of him carrying all its baggage around in his head.

"He went out," Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"He can do that?"

"Not far," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "But far enough to scavenge for food. I think—he doesn't really want to be around you."

" _(Something we agree on.)_ "

Ratonhnhaké:ton flinches a little in response to that, and Haytham feels extremely bad for him, caught in the middle the way he is. "I think you upset him," Ratonhnhaké:ton goes on, and Haytham feels a mild spike of irritation in response _(because what right does he have to be angry when he's the one that killed me?)._ "He's been sad."

 _(…sad?)_

Haytham says nothing, and Ratonhnhaké:ton shifts uncomfortably _(He does not know how to be still the way Connor does, or maybe he simply never learned to value the skill. He is not an assassin, after all. His face is not so closed off either, and Haytham can read his discomfort plainly)._ This is a line of inquiry that no part of Haytham is comfortable pursuing. He is still trying to find a safe topic for conversation when Ratonhnhaké:ton speaks up first. "Connor and I were like you," he says. "When he first arrived."

"How so?"

"He was in my mind at first," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, touching one hand to the side of his head, against the elaborate wolf pelt he uses as a hood. "But buried deeper than you are, I think. I barely knew he was there."

"How did he get out?" Haytham asks, legitimately curious and hoping Ratonhnhaké:ton's strategy will be of some help to him. He can't help longing for peace in his own mind again, and part of him is curious to know what it would be like to talk to himself. A rare chance at intelligent conversation, no doubt. Maybe even a chance to talk over the things that have been worrying him, the ones he can't trust anyone else with.

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugs, _(which is no help at all)_. "Washington almost killed me," he says. "I was bayonetted in the stomach." Haytham winces—Ratonhnhaké:ton must have been extremely lucky to survive a wound like that. "When I woke again, he was there."

Well, Haytham is not planning on having any near death experiences. That option is clearly best left unexplored. Still, knowing that it is possible to separate the two parts of himself gives him a little bit of hope. He is about to start asking more questions, hoping to get some more solid information, when Ratonhnhaké:ton interrupts with one of his own.

"Are you completely human?"

" _(Of course)._ Not entirely."

"What?" His son's face reflects an entirely understandable confusion. "Which is it, then? Yes or no?"

"No," Haytham says firmly. He knows Ratonhnhaké:ton has had the tea, of course. It is obvious for someone that knows the signs to look for. "I drank the tea as well. But the part of me that comes from Connor's world is having… difficulty accepting that."

"Oh. Well, Connor doesn't like it much either. What animal did you meet, when you drank the tea?"

Haytham shakes his head. "Best not to talk of it."

"But—"

"I'm asking you," Haytham says calmly. "To please let this go."

And Ratonhnhaké:ton nods, uncertain but obedient. Before either of them can ask anything else, a third man appears in the space between them, invisible like Connor but freakishly mutated, with a wolf's ears where his should be. Haytham swears strongly and backs away, but Ratonhnhaké:ton seems entirely unconcerned. "Don't worry," he says. "That's just Desmond."

-/-

Everyone is just sitting around in awkward silence when Connor comes back, carrying far less food than he'd planned on returning with. Ratonhnhaké:ton and Haytham and Desmond, looking marginally more cheerful than he has in Connor's experience so far.

"Welcome back," Connor says.

"Thanks." He shoots a nervous look at Haytham, who looks far from welcoming at the moment. "I'm in a new animus."

"You look exactly the same," Connor says, and Desmond shrugs. "Yea, well, I have Lucy and Rebecca in my ear telling me how much better the footage is they're getting from this one."

"There are people watching us now?" Haytham asks sharply, narrowing his eyes at Desmond.

"Well—yea," Desmond says, looking as nervous as any sane person would in the face of that glare. "But if it helps any, none of them are going to be born for like hundreds of years."

For a second it looks like Haytham's going to take issue with that, but then he scoffs and shakes his head. "Nothing else in this whole world makes sense," he says dismissively. "Why should this?" He crosses his arms. "In that case, we might as well move on. What are our next plans?"

"Food," Connor says. He divides his meagre rations three ways, then hesitates and pushes some of his own into Haytham's pile. Because he _is_ capable of being the bigger man here, and his father is barely skin and bones, half starved from his time in Washington's prison. He needs to eat.

Desmond watches them in silence, and shakes his head when Connor offers him a part. "No," he says. "My body's not even here, I can eat in my own time."

"Fair enough."

Haytham half turns away from the others as he starts eating, and they in turn pretend not to notice the way he eats. Like he can't get the food into himself fast enough, like it's been an age since he's had even as much as this to eat. He doesn't waste any of it either, not a single crumb.

Desmond fidgets as the others eat, ears twitching toward every sound he hears. When Haytham—the only one of the other three that doesn't look capable of talking and eating at the same time just now—is done eating, Desmond asks, "What do we do after food?"

"Go after the king," Ratonhnhaké:ton says at once.

"That's a big target," Haytham says.

"It's the only one that matters," Ratonhnhaké:ton points out. "Aren't you guys supposed to be assassins, or something? Isn't that what you do? Kill people?"

"Connor is an assassin," Haytham says sharply. "I'm a templar."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him blankly, so Desmond nudges him in the side. "They're the bad guys."

"Not exactly," Haytham says, teeth gritted. "It's a war, Ratonhnhaké:ton, a war that has been waged all over the world, in one form or another, since mankind won the world back from those who came before?"

"Who?" Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond ask, in almost perfect synchronization.

"A story for another day," Haytham says. "The point is, Desmond, that you're a fool if you think it's as simple as good guys and bad guys."

After a short pause, Connor says, "He does still kill people, though."

"You should talk," Haytham says sharply. "But—yes, to oversimplify things drastically, I do kill people."

"So this is the perfect group to bring Washington down," Ratonhnhaké:ton says earnestly to Haytham. "You all do this for a living!"

"I don't," Desmond objects. "I just… they're helping me. But I'm nobody really. I'm just a bartender."

"That travels through time and has wolf ears," Haytham says. "I don't know much about you, Desmond, but it is pointless to argue that you're _nobody_. Useless perhaps, but not nobody. Now, Ratonhnhaké:ton—" and he turns away from Desmond, ignoring the way the younger man seems torn between looking pleased and insulted. "Killing something like Washington isn't something any of us have experience in. The powers he has are something we can't match."

"We have powers too, though," Ratonhnhaké:ton argues. "The tea."

"It might help," Connor says cautiously. He doesn't trust the tea as completely as Ratonhnhaké:ton does, and he certainly doesn't like the idea of relying on it entirely in the fight against Washington.

"What about the rest of it?" Desmond asks, and the other three all turn to look at him. He flushes.

"What do you mean, the rest of it?" Haytham asks.

"It's just…" he turns and looks almost pleadingly at Ratonhnhaké:ton. "I saw your friend had some at the prison. Kanen'tó:kon. You took it from him, didn't you?"

"I—well, yes. I did."

"And when were you going to tell the rest of us?" Connor demands.

"I don't know. Maybe when we figured out what father is doing here?" he suggests. "There were other things that seemed more pressing. But yes. I did take the tea Kanen'tó:kon had on him when we broke him out." His eyes flash defiantly at Connor. "I plan to drink it as soon as things calm down a little."

"That's a bad idea," Connor protests.

"But it's also _my_ decision," Ratonhnhaké:ton insists. "You two have training. I just want to level the playing field a little bit. I want to help, because we _need_ to get rid of him."

"As much as I hate to agree with Connor," Haytham says. "He is right in this case. That tea is dangerous."

"You drank it," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "You told me that you did."

"Which is how I know what the effects are."

"He killed my mother," Ratonhnhaké:ton snarls. "He needs to die."

"Ziio is—she's dead?"

"Murdered."

Haytham looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods. "Drink it," he says. "And then as soon as you've recovered, we leave for New York. That's where he was before I was captured, I assume he's still there."

"But what gives you the right to make that decision?" Connor snaps.

"Nothing," Haytham says. "But I'm not taking no for an answer."

 **-/-**

 **Opinion time: Should the two versions of Haythams stay together, or sperate?**

 **Second opinion time: What kind of animal should Haytham be able to turn into from the tea? I'm torn between something super dangerous and something that's just really embarrassing. :P**


	7. Chapter 7

Only it's not _quite_ as simple as that, because Connor won't allow Ratonhnhaké:ton to drink the tea immediately. He says this place is too dangerous, and they should find somewhere more secluded. Haytham points out that they don't have much time, and Connor just insists that he wants to take it as soon as possible. Desmond listens to the debate without contributing, very aware that he is the odd man out here. It's not so much that he isn't really here, because neither is Connor. But he's not a fighter like the rest of these people, and he isn't as invested in events.

He already knows they will fail.

And he wonders if the others have realized that yet. Desmond hasn't made a secret of the fact that Washington is still king in his time, which obviously means he's still alive—so this plan will fail. Maybe they know, and just don't care. _Desmond_ almost doesn't care. With so many other impossible things going on here, who's to say that they can't change history? Maybe Washington will actually die this time.

But every time he starts to think that, as the nagging, wiggling feeling of hope starts to light up inside him, Desmond remembers where he is and why he is there. He remembers a lifetime hiding what he is from Washington's soldiers. He remembers the insane decrees that make life almost impossible for people to live and support their families. He remembers the animus and what they need to see from Ratonhnhaké:ton's memories. He remembers that they will fail.

Desmond is jerked back to himself as the others get up and start moving at last. Apparently Connor has won the argument, and they are looking for somewhere safer to let Ratonhnhaké:ton take the tea. Fine—Desmond goes with them, and he sits on the edge of the group without being told. Haytham's comment from earlier about him being useless is still on his mind, and Desmond is reluctant to impose himself on the rest of the group.

Maybe that's why he's the one that sees it. The way Ratonhnhaké:ton is constantly looking at the tea in its flask, like he can't pull his eyes away. The way his fingers keep going toward it, then stopping abruptly. Desmond has seen that look before, back at the bar in New York (it seems so far away now). Tired men and women with nothing on their minds but the next drink. Addicts.

And Ratonhnhaké:ton isn't the only one. Haytham keeps edging toward it as well, and Desmond watches him stop and force himself away time after time after time. It makes him angry, Desmond can see it on his face. He wonders suddenly what form the tea has given Haytham. Form, or forms. He wonders how many times Haytham has taken it.

When Ratonhnhaké:ton has taken the tea, Desmond asks. He doesn't do it because he wants to talk to Haytham (no, God no). It's just that this is the moment of danger, with the acrid smell of the tea in the air all around them (and Desmond knows he has a stronger sense of smell than normal people, but he this is like a living thing in his nose, and he's half convinced that even the dead could smell it). This situation is strange and impossible, but Desmond actually knows what to do here.

"How many times?"

Haytham jerks his head up, eyes narrowed. But he's not looking at the one dose of tea that still remains in Ratonhnhaké:ton's flask anymore, and that's a start.

"How many times..?"

"You know what," Desmond says, and Haytham does him the courtesy of not pretending.

"Three," he says.

"What—" Connor had been staring at Ratonhnhaké:ton until this point, but he looks at Desmond and Haytham instead. "Are you talking about the tea?"

"Yes," Haytham says sharply. Everything he says to Connor is sharp. Like a blade.

"You took it _three times_?"

"Yes."

"So are you part wolf, like Ratonhnhaké:ton?" Desmond asks.

"It affects everyone differently," Haytham says. "I never met the wolf."

"Then what did you meet?" Desmond asks.

A short pause, then: "An eagle."

Desmond feels his eyes go wide. "My grandfather was part eagle," he says wistfully, because it's been a long time since he saw the old man, and he's one of the people that makes his family worth being in.

"I am not your grandfather," Haytham says firmly.

"I know," Desmond says. " _He_ wasn't a dick." This comment is rewarded with a surprised smile from Haytham, one that the older man quickly covers up. Still. Progress is progress. Haytham's not even facing the tea anymore, focused entirely on Desmond. "Can you fly?" he asks. "My grandfather could fly."

"Yes," Haytham confirms.

"Can you really?" Connor asks. Haytham doesn't even look at him.

"What else?" Desmond asks, leaning forward with all possible interest. "Besides the eagle."

"I believe I'm entitled to some secrets of my own," Haytham says, almost smug as he sits back and crosses his arms.

"Please?"

"Not today, Desmond (Thank you)."

He nods uncertainly, still disconcerted by the strange way Haytham speaks. He thinks the second voice, the one that sounds more formal and doesn't show up that often, must be the Haytham from Connor's world. Maybe he knows how close he is to losing himself in the tea. Desmond nods back uncertainly, and scoots a little closer to the rest of the group along the floor.

"This is insane," Connor whispers, and Desmond feels bad for him. His world, from what Desmond has heard, doesn't have anything like this. Two people in one head, humans with bits of animals in them, magic teas—none of that is real for him the way it is for the others.

"He's waking up," Desmond says, because he isn't sure what to say to Connor, and because Ratonhnhaké:ton is in fact starting to stir. There's a happy, almost euphoric smile on his face. Like a child that knows it will wake up safe and sound in its parents' arms. "Let's see what he's bringing with him."

-/-

Ratonhnhaké:ton wants to fly when he wakes up. The sky is calling him, singing through his veins. "I have wings," he says reverently, despite all evidence to the contrary. His back and shoulders are bare against the floor but he _knows_. "I can fly."

Connor puts a hand on Ratonhnhaké:ton's, pulling him into a sitting position. It grounds him a little, enough that Ratonhnhaké:ton can remember he is human. "Maybe later," he says.

"Who did you meet?" Desmond asks.

"An eagle," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. He almost misses the way his father's face changes for a moment, but manages to catch the flicker of pride there. That doesn't feel quite as good as the transformation itself, but it's a nice bonus.

It takes him a few steps to get walking to work right, but by the time they're out of the building and under the open sky everything feels right again. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't think he can force his feet to stay on the ground a moment longer, and with no thought in his head but freedom, he flies.

And when he flies, everything is suddenly clear. It's like he's been walking around in a fog for his entire life, but as soon as he spreads his wings for the first time, the fog is swept away. When he lands again, far above the ground with his feet on a roof and his eyes still turned to the sky, the fog comes rolling back into his mind. And he is not alone. Ratonhnhaké:ton hears the rustle of wings at his side and then his father is at his side.

"You can—so you are like me," Ratonhnhaké:ton murmurs.

"As I took the tea first, I believe it would be more accurate to say that _you_ are like _me._ "

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. He can't pretend he much minds that. "I have a question," he says.

"Hmm?"

"How did they ever catch you?" he asks. "When you can do _that_?"

His father smiles. Not the kind of smile that means he's happy. "That's a long story," he says.

"We have time—"

"We don't. Not if we want to get after Washington."

And Ratonhnhaké:ton does want that. He wants to find Washington, and _kill him_ for what he'd done to his mother. "Will you tell me later, then?" he asks.

"If the time is ever right," his father says. He moves toward the edge of the roof and gestures for Ratonhnhaké:ton to follow him. When that doesn't immediately happen, he stops and looks back. "Come, Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"I'm just—" he glances over the edge of the roof and feels his stomach clench. This is higher than nearly anything he's ever climbed—the only thing that comes close is the red willow itself. "I don't like heights."

"(Really?)" His father sounds almost shocked, like this is some kind of revelation. Maybe he's thinking of Connor, because Connor doesn't seem to be afraid of anything. Ratonhnhaké:ton is. He nods without looking at his father. "You flew up here."

"That was different," Ratonhnhaké:ton mutters.

"Is it the height?" his father asks. "Or the fall?"

"The fall." He is thinking about flying again, about spreading his wings and returning to the ground that way. But his father grabs him by the arm and pulls him a step or two closer toward the edge instead.

"Father—"

"You will only grow more afraid the longer you wait to face your fears," his father says, and he sounds almost kind for the first time.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Fall."

He jerks back from the edge, as far as he can get with his father's hand still around his arm. It's a surprisingly strong grip, considering his recent imprisonment. "No."

"You'll live."

"How? This building is three stories—"

"See that hay cart on the street?"

"You think I can land in _that_?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demands. It looks barely the size of a button from up here. When Ratonhnhaké:ton squints and holds his hand up, he can cover the entire thing with just his thumb.

"I know you can," his father says, and a moment later he has released Ratonhnhaké:ton's arm and jumped. Arms spread, back straight, dropping like a stone. When he squints, Ratonhnhaké:ton can just see his father climbing out, brushing hay conscientiously from his ragged clothing.

And Ratonhnhaké:ton is not at all sure he can do that. If anything, he's pretty sure he can't. The smart thing to do would be to fly down. Ignore his father and the impossible jump. But that would mean disappointing the man, and Ratonhnhaké:ton has only just gotten him back. He's seen the way Haytham and Connor interact, the coldness there, the hate.

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't want that. The only question is whether he is more or less afraid of falling to his death than he is of losing his father's approval. Does he even _have_ his father's approval? Or does it just seem that way, compared to Connor? (Then again, Ratonhnhaké:ton is half convinced that his father likes Washington more than he likes Connor)

He takes a breath, and he jumps.

This feels _nothing_ like flying. Ratonhnhaké:ton squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about the helpless feeling, of being unable to control his own body. He has just had time to think longingly of wings when he hits the hay cart. It makes a loud noise, and all the breath goes out of Ratonhnhaké:ton's lungs in an instant. He sits up, panting and gasping for breath, and spots his father looking at him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Ratonhnhaké:ton has the uncomfortable feeling that he's just failed some kind of a test, but then his father smiles a bit.

"Well," he says. "That certainly wasn't the most elegant leap of faith I've ever seen."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stares at him, shaking his head in silent alarm. For some reason, this seems to amuse his father to no end, and the older man nearly bends over double laughing. And maybe there is some humor to it after all, because after a second Ratonhnhaké:ton starts laughing too. And it feels good to laugh like this, with his father. It feels like everything is going to be alright.

-/-

Connor is relieved when Ratonhnhaké:ton finally returns with their father. He is concerned and confused when he sees the two of them smiling. "What happened?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

"He told me to jump off a roof," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, but he's still smiling when he points at Haytham. Like maybe the whole thing is more of a joke than a reason to be angry.

"I don't get it," Desmond says. "Who cares if you jump off a roof? You can fly!"

"Never mind," Haytham interrupts quickly. "We need to move on, as quickly as possible."

"How do we get to New York, though?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks, suddenly serious again. "It's guarded in every direction on land, everyone knows that. And Washington has every ship that goes in or out of port accounted for."

"There has to be some kind of vessel," Connor insists, because he has a hard time believing there are no options at all. "Something small, maybe."

"I might have a few ideas," Haytham says. "But I'll need some time to go out and talk to my contacts. Alone."

"I don't like that idea much," Connor says, but he's only managed to get the first few words out when Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. "Alright," he says. "We'll meet back here just after dark to compare notes."

"Perfect," Haytham says crisply, and he turns and takes flight without another word.

"Awesome," Desmond whispers, but then Connor frowns and Desmond gives him a sheepish look in response. "Look," he says. "I know you don't like the guy, but you have to admit. The flying thing is pretty cool."

It is. Not that Connor would ever admit that. "Come on," he says instead. "We should do some investigating of our own while father is following up on whatever his leads are."

"Sure," Ratonhnhaké:ton agrees. "Where do you want to start?"

But Connor doesn't really know this world, and in the end they settle on canvassing the streets near the docks in their tight little group. Connor walks with Ratonhnhaké:ton near the front, while Desmond hangs back a little ways, taking in the sights (and, Connor is sure) the scents of the docks. After a while, Connor realizes Ratonhnhaké:ton has released his half visible pack of wolves, and that the animals are loping along with Desmond. They seem to make the younger man happy, and the wolves seem more like dogs at his side than wild animals.

Connor raises his eyes heavenward for a minute, contemplating how insane his life has become since dropping into this world. After a while, he turns to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Did father really try to push you off a roof?"

"Not really," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "He was teaching me to do this… I can't remember what he called it. Leap of faith?" Connor's stomach twists a little, and maybe his face does too, because Ratonhnhaké:ton notices. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Connor says. "Everything's—" No, not really. Maybe it's a petty concern, but Connor really is bothered by Haytham teaching Ratonhnhaké:ton how to make a leap of faith. "That's usually something only assassins know how to do," he explains. "I don't know where father learned it in the first place, but he… he shouldn't have been the one to teach you."

"Who should it have been, then?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "I assume you must know how to do it, or you wouldn't be so upset."

"I do," Connor agrees.

"So who taught you?"

Connor hesitates a moment, then nods. "An old man," he says. "Called Achilles. He took me in when I needed someone. He's the one that gave me my name."

"Sort of a father figure?" Desmond calls, and Connor and Ratonhnhaké:ton both turn to look back at him. He's resting one hand on the ghostly wolf next to him, fingers buried in its fur, but his ears are perked straight up and facing the two of them.

"It's rude to eavesdrop," Connor grumbles. He purposefully doesn't answer Desmond's question, even when he turns back to Ratonhnhaké:ton to continue their conversation. "I just think it's dangerous for you to trust father like this," he says.

"But he's my father," Ratonhnhaké:ton says quietly. "And I've wanted to know him my entire life." And there's nothing Connor can say to change his mind. Not when Ratonhnhaké:ton hasn't lived the same life that he has. They go back to searching for some kind of a ship.

But when night begins to fall, they still haven't found anything. Connor sighs and suggests they start turning back—as loath as he is to meet back up with his father, he knows that it would be worse to avoid him tonight and inevitably run across him later. But they're only halfway back to their starting point when an eagle touches down halfway between Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond, and a moment later resolves itself into Haytham. "That looks strange," Connor grumbles.

"(It certainly feels strange)," his father responds, and Connor eyes him in surprise. He is fairly sure that had been _his_ father speaking, not Ratonhnhaké:ton's. It is strange to agree about anything. "But more to the point," he continues, in his more normal voice. "I have found us a ship."

"Really?" Desmond asks eagerly. "We couldn't even find so much as a canoe."

"Well, luckily not all my contacts have been killed while I was rotting in that cell," Haytham says. "And one of them was kind enough to tell me about a plan to free a ship Washington captured a few months back. They're moving tonight, and if we help them get the ship away from Washington's men, we will be able to accompany them."

"Who is your contact?" Connor asks.

"The ship's captain," Haytham says. "He—"

"What about the ship?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "What's it's name?"

"Her name," Connor corrects.

" _Her_ name," Haytham says, with a pointed look at Connor. "Is the _Aquila."_

And Connor's whole body goes cold with the shock of it.


	8. Chapter 8

It seems to take forever for the light to fade, but night does finally come. Ratonhnhaké:ton is restless by this point, itching to be up in the air again, or at least doing something. More than once he stands to start pacing, and Connor has to pull him back. "Don't," he says sternly. "You'll only draw attention to us, and we cannot afford that right now."

"I just need to be moving," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "It's not my fault that father and I are the only ones visible in this world. You can move around as much as you want."

"And yet you'll notice that I can manage to sit down and stay down for more than five minutes at a time," Connor says. "Come here."

"But Connor—"

" _Sit_. _"_

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't want to sit, but he also doesn't much like the way everyone else is staring at him. Grudgingly, he crouches down at Connor's side. Their father is distracted by some conversation with Desmond, giving Ratonhnhaké:ton some privacy with his double. And for the first time, Ratonhnhaké:ton realizes he is not the only one uncomfortable with this. "What's bothering you?" he asks.

By the look of it, Connor is fighting down the urge to argue. But everything is obviously not fine, and to his credit, he doesn't actually try to claim that it is. "The _Aquila_ is my ship," he says.

"You have a ship?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

Connor nods. "I helped to rebuild her when I was a teenager. I learned to sail on her. I… The way you feel, when you fly?" Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. "I have never flown, but I imagine it's close to how it feels to sail. The _Aquila_ was my freedom, and now someone else captains her."

Ratonhnhaké:ton tries to imagine what this must feel like, to have that kind of freedom taken away. Or worse, to have it just handed to someone else. His imagination utterly fails him. "I'm sorry," he says, and Connor makes a soft noise in his throat.

"I do not like this world," he says quietly.

The two of them sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Ratonhnhaké:ton hears footsteps coming toward them. He and Connor look up in unison, and see their father standing a foot or two away. The older man looks down at them, frowning. "It's past dark," he says. "I need to speak with my contacts to make sure we all move at the same time."

"You'll be seen," Connor protests.

 _"(Is your opinion of me really so low?)"_ Connor flushes red, the way he always does when that particular tone drifts into their father's voice.

"You've been in a cell for decades," he says. "That's all I meant. Just that you must be out of practice."

"It doesn't matter anyway," their father says. "I have another way of moving unseen."

"Will you fly?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

"An eagle is still a little more visible than I would like to be just now," Haytham says briskly. "But… I have taken the tea more than once."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him, curious despite himself. And Connor is staring as well, _and_ Desmond. Haytham flushes a little, and his whole posture seems to shift into something a little defensive. "You have to remember," he says. "I didn't get to choose what animals I met when I drank the tea."

"Of course not," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "They just… come."

"What did you meet that's so horrible?" Connor asks.

"I don't know that 'horrible' is exactly the right word," their father says. "More… I suppose embarrassing might be closer to the truth."

"Well now you have to show us," Desmond laughs. "Please?"

"You said yourself that you need to get going," Connor says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could almost swear his double sounds like he's teasing their father, the same way Desmond is. He wants to tell them to stop, but he doesn't think Haytham would appreciate his help.

Anyway… he sort of wants to see himself.

"Alright," Haytham says at last. "Fine."

And then he seems to simply vanish. Ratonhnhaké:ton is left blinking numbly at the space where his father had been a moment before. "What—"

Desmond gets it first, and starts laughing. He moves forward, sharp and sure, and scoops something into his hands. "Normally I can't stand squirrels," he says. "But…" he trails off, grinning with more genuine good cheer than Ratonhnhaké:ton has seen from him so far, and cradling the little bundle of fur in the crook of one arm. "This one I like."

"Father?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demands, staring at the… well, Desmond's got it right. It is, in fact, a squirrel. Connor actually _laughs_ at the sight, not with any particular humor, but still. "You met a squirrel as your spirit animal one of the times when you took the tea? _Really_?"

"Well, why not?" Desmond asks. "The king uses the tea to enhance his army in my time, and I've seen people with worse forms than squirrel."

"What could be worse than squirrel?" Connor asks, and Ratonhnhaké:ton (still looking at his father) thinks the squirrel actually manages to look offended at this. It's an impressive expression for such a small and… well, fluffy, animal. Ratonhnhaké:ton can't keep himself from smiling, just a little, and he reaches out a finger to rub up against the squirrel's tiny head. His father responds by puffing up his tail, but doesn't try to move away.

"Well, there's cat," Desmond says. "I _hate_ cats, the smell just…" he makes a face that leaves Ratonhnhaké:ton in absolutely no doubt about his descendant's feeling on cats. Not that this surprises him much, from a man that's spent his entire life as part wolf. "I saw a butterfly once, and that was pretty useless. And a worm. Oh, and this one time I saw a trout, which sucks because we were miles away from any kind of water. And—"

"Alright, Desmond," Ratonhnhaké:ton interrupts. "We get it—squirrel isn't the worst choice."

His father is starting to stir restlessly in Desmond's hand, and so he lets him go. The squirrel bolts, and vanishes quickly. Ratonhnhaké:ton breathes in, deeply, trying to remember the scent for later (just in case). He catches Desmond doing the same thing out of the corner of his eye, and the two of them share a sheepish expression.

Well. Tonight certainly seems to be turning out as strangely as all the days before it.

Haytham has never been extraordinarily proud of his ability to turn into a small, furry rodent. Ziio had laughed herself silly when she saw the effects of the tea for the first time, laughed until she couldn't breathe. It had been the first spirit animal Haytham met after drinking the tea, and at the time her laughter had seemed like an insult. It had driven him to drink the tea again (and _again_ ) until she finally told him she _did not care_ what form he wore, as long as he was with her, and with Ratonhnhaké:ton.

By this time, Washington had already declared himself king. He had cut a bloody path through both the assassins and the templars, destroying both orders in the Americas. Haytham had been one of the few on either side to survive, and for a while he had considered revenge. Many of his closest friends, the people he _trusted_ had been mown down by that madman.

The one thing that stopped him was Ziio. She had struggled, giving birth to their son, and the effort had almost killed her. In the aftermath of the loss of the men he was supposed to have been able to protect, Haytham couldn't stand to lose the woman he loved as well. It was a few years of calm, before… well, before everything went wrong, and Haytham had been captured by the king's men.

Until that one, disastrous day, Haytham had almost believed everything would be alright. He could stay with his family, watch his son grow up, teach him the kinds of things Haytham's own father had never had time to tell him. And in the meantime, while Ratonhnhaké:ton was still a child, Haytham had planned to enjoy every moment they had together.

Ratonhnhaké:ton had even managed to change Haytham's opinion on being part squirrel. He'd loved being able to curl up at Ratonhnhaké:ton's side when his son was in infant, and he'd loved even more the feel of Ratonhnhaké:ton's pudgy, childish hands wrapped around him when he'd gotten a little older, petting and playing with him. Haytham hadn't ever figured out how to be a good father, but at least with this one form, he'd been able to make his son happy.

And it's useful for one or two more things, besides amusing Ratonhnhaké:ton (and, apparently, Desmond). Even with the streets warming with soldiers, he passes entirely unseen through them all. He darts away from the place where he'd left the other three, trying to ignore the obnoxious, foreign part of his mind that still insists being a squirrel is _(unnatural, embarrassing, and strange)_. Because it isn't, really, it's just the way he is now, and—

 _(If being a glorified rat is so incredibly helpful, why didn't you use it in all the years you were in prison? You could have slipped between the bars and been gone in a day.)_

The question is so unexpected and so utterly _unwanted_ , coming as it does from himself, that Haytham momentarily loses control of his own limbs. His legs (it's been a while since he's tried running on all fours like this) stutter and freeze underneath him, and Haytham goes tumbling head over heels for several feet, landing in a puddle of foul smelling water.

He has his reasons for not trying to escape all those years. He doesn't need to go back over them in his own mind, _(although it's funny, you know, that I can see everything else in your mind but I can't get anywhere near that)._ All that matters is that he had deserved it. Haytham would have been content to stay in that pit underground for whatever he had left of his life, if Ratonhnhaké:ton _(and Connor)_ had not come for him.

Haytham eventually reaches his destination, and remembers to shift back to human before coming into sight of the man he's come to meet. This part of town is nearly deserted, so that Haytham spots his contact at once. In the darkness, and at this distance, he's nothing but a dark shadow leaning against a fence. Haytham has to get awfully close before he is able to make out any additional details.

The man is incredibly thin, almost gaunt _(but then, times have been hard, in this world. No one here looks quite as healthy as they should)._ His hair is tied back from his face in a neat, almost severe fashion, and when he looks at Haytham his face is lined from worry. Still, he straightens as Haytham comes closer, so that Haytham gets a better look at his oddly mismatched clothing. In any other place, and in any other time, a man dressed in this mix of assassin and templar robes would have been shunned by both sides. Here, and now, with a bigger enemy facing them, he's more of a helpful link between those few on both sides that remain.

"Shay," Haytham says tiredly, and the man nods back at him.

"Sir," he says. "We're ready to move, just as soon as you are."

Haytham smiles, without any real cheer. "I believe my son is going to attempt to take the ship himself if we don't move quickly."

"Ah!" Shay manages a smile of his own, and his looks a little brighter than Haytham's. "Then I suppose we should start as soon as possible. And anyway, I want my ship back."

 _"(It's not_ your _ship!)"_ Haytham says, far too loudly. Shay stares at him, but as Haytham hasn't (and doesn't plan to) explain that there are two of him in his head, he has no explanation to offer. "I apologize," he says stiffly.

"Sir," Shay says again, somewhat stiffly. Then he sighs. "Never mind. I imagine you're still recovering from the king's prisons."

Haytham nods, grateful for the excuse, then jerks his head back the way he had come. "Do you need to get your people together before we head back?"

Shay points at the rooftops around them, and when Haytham squints, he can just see half a dozen shadowy forms waiting there. "They'll follow," Shay says. "And I've a crew arranged and waiting by the docks. I told them to wait until we take the _Aquila_ back. No reason for them to put themselves in danger while we fight."

"Good," Haytham says, and they start walking, sticking to the side streets and accompanied every step of the way by their silent, rooftop escort. After a few blocks, Haytham says, "Shay?"

"Yes?"

"Before I was taken by the king's men, you were well on your way to joining the Templars. Now I find you caught between our side and the assassins. And I'm not implying it isn't useful, because it is." Combining forces like this is an admirable idea, the only way Haytham can think of to effectively fight the king. "I just have to wonder."

Shay shrugs uncomfortably. "I suppose I saw that we had a larger threat than each other," he says. "And I had been on both sides of the fight. No one else stepped up to bring us all together, so… I did." He laughs shortly. "Not that either side really likes me much."

"And… The _Morrigan_?"

An expression of true pain and loss crosses Shay's face. "Lost," he says. "The King burned her, five years back now. She was docked, and I was elsewhere in the city. By the time I found out..." He takes a breath. "Anyway. I captain the _Aquila_ now as there's no one else left that know how, and she's a fine ship. But she's not truly mine."

Haytham nods understandingly.

 _(Of course she's not yours,)_ a part of him thinks, smugly. _(Connor is by no means a perfect son, but he certainly can sail, and this is_ his _ship.)_

-/-

The initial distraction of the battle keeps Connor from worrying too much about who it is that's taken _his ship_ in this world. He and Desmond are useless in this, given that they can't even be seen by most of the combatants, but it's important that they get on the ship before the fight is over, to prevent it from setting sail and leaving them behind. He isn't sure exactly what would happen then, since neither of them can get far from Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he assumes it won't be enjoyable.

So they help themselves onto the ship, and Connor allows himself a few moments of peace to look around. The _Aquila_ looks unbelievably familiar, it looks—it _feels—_ like home, it even smells exactly the same. Connor breathes deeply, taking in the smell of the wood, of the sea around them, and that scent does what nothing else has managed to do since he's arrived here.

It makes him afraid. Suddenly, Connor is terrified that he will never get home. It's alright for his father, mixed up so closely with the version of himself from this world there barely seems to be a distinction between the two of them. And Desmond can leave his animus thing whenever he likes, he can go home. Connor is the only one facing the possibility of spending the rest of his life as a ghost.

"Connor?" Desmond says, and Connor jumps a little. He hadn't been expecting to be interrupted just then.

"What?"

"Are you okay?" Desmond asks. "You look kind of out of it."

Connor almost waves Desmond off. He has gotten by just fine for the entirety of his life without letting people in. But then again… he's never quite faced anything like this world. Connor looks at Desmond, and frowns deeply. "I want to go home," he admits, quietly. "It's not much, my world. I've made so many mistakes that sometimes I don't think I'll ever make them right again. But it's home. I miss it. And I miss my ship."

Desmond is quiet, which Connor is grateful for. He doesn't imagine that there's anything anyone can say to make him feel better, and platitudes will certainly only make him feel worse. So he and Desmond just stand at the rail in silence, watching the fight back on the docks as the crew Haytham's people have managed to gather swim out toward them. Connor watches them intently, trying to figure out which one is the ship's captain in this world.

Connor picks him out eventually, a stranger dressed in a very unusual combination of assassin and templar gear. He's a good fighter, Connor has to admit, not quite as good as Haytham but better than Ratonhnhaké:ton. And human, which Connor can appreciate. Haytham stays _mostly_ human throughout, but he does occasionally take advantage of his eagle form to reposition himself and get above the brawl. Connor doesn't see him use the squirrel even once, though. And he knows his father has taken the tea three times, but he doesn't see a hint of whatever the third form is, either. He wonders absently if it's something even worse than squirrel.

"Do you know…" Desmond hesitates, and Connor looks over at him. The younger man is staring at Ratonhnhaké:ton. "In my time, the king controls the tea. He gives it to his soldiers, to make them stronger, and no one else is allowed to drink it. They last a few months or a few years, and then they have to be replaced."

"Why?" Connor asks.

"They go crazy," Desmond says, still watching Ratonhnhaké:ton as he switches seamlessly from wolf to eagle and back and (only occasionally) to his own shape. "They forget that they're human."

Connor has no idea what to say to that, and no time to say it anyway. Just then, the last soldiers fall, and then everyone is rushing on board. The stranger Connor has (apparently correctly) identified as the captain dashes to the wheel, tersely ordering that the ship be untethered. It's all chaos for a while, and Connor stands on the dock, as much out of the way as he can, feeling out of place and useless as someone else as the sails are let out and the ship is carried away from the docks.

Desmond slips away from his side, and crouches at Ratonhnhaké:ton's side to try and coax him out of his wolf form, back to being human. It takes far longer than it should, and at the end of it, Connor is left with unhappy thoughts of madness and the tea piled on top of his homesickness.

They're well underway, and Connor's just starting to think that this day couldn't possibly get any worse, when the lookout shouts that the king's ships are following behind them. And that they are gaining.


	9. Chapter 9

There's no gunpowder to spare on a battle just now, and the men Shay has found to crew the _Aquila_ are less experienced than they could be. Haytham is sure they will do their best—it is, after all, their own lives on the line—but he has a frankly low opinion of their chances in a full out battle.

"Shay," he calls, striding toward the ship's wheel, next to where Connor stands, invisibly, watching Shay's work with eyes like a hawk's. "What are our chances here?"

The younger man's face is tense and worried, and gives Haytham his answer even before Shay says a word. "We're sailing with less crew than we should," he says. "And most of them are out of practice and underfed. The _Aquila_ hasn't been sailed in a while, and she's not in perfect shape. And the ships coming after us are larger and faster, and presumably better manned." He gestures hopelessly at the cliffs ahead of them. "We can try to lose them in shallow waters, but frankly…"

"No," Haytham says. "If our chances are that poor, we won't take the risk."

Connor shakes his head. "He's right," he admits. "It's not a good option, but it's the only option."

"Sail toward deeper waters," Haytham tells Shay.

"They'll catch us," Shay protests.

"That's what I'm counting on," Haytham says. "I can't stop them unless they get close."

Shay looks at him, sizing him up and… and yes, there it is. His expression, which until now has been polite and even respectful, slips suddenly into a kind of guarded fear. Clearly, he has heard the rumors. Haytham had heard them too, in the confused, fearful days before he was captured by the king's men and shoved so deeply underground he'd thought they were trying to carry him straight to hell.

The rumors had been bad enough back then, decades ago. Haytham can only imagine how much farther they've spun out of control in the years since. He'd half hoped that what he'd done would have been forgotten, out of sight out of mind, but apparently he's not that lucky. Going by the reaction Shay had had (and is in fact _still having_ , as he hasn't relaxed an inch), they have only gotten worse in the past two decades.

"You really shouldn't," Shay says quietly. "You really, _really_ shouldn't."

 _"(And the world shouldn't be like this),"_ Haytham says, firmly. _"(It should be better." Any sacrifice is worth making things better, getting this world back to somewhere worth living. No matter what that sacrifice might be.)_ But this sacrifice might end up being too big, bigger than that foreign part of his mind is capable of realizing.

"But what about the danger you'll be putting us in?" Shay asks. "It's no good escaping the other ships if—"

"I'll be careful," Haytham promises.

"You haven't done this in a while," Shay points out. "And the one time you did, it was… well forgive me, but it was rather a disaster."

Haytham looks at him. "Then run," he says. "The moment you see our pursuers are too close to turn, order full sails and get away from here as quickly as you can." He doesn't allow Shay another chance to protest. Instead, he turns and looks over the ship's side. _(He can almost feel Connor bursting to question him, and after the time they have spent together, in both worlds, He brushes Connor aside, feeling the boy bristle at the careless dismissal, and waits to find out what secret is so big that he cannot even think of it, cannot even find these memories within his own mind. The tea, perhaps? Or-)_ The tea, yes. But… well. Soon enough, everyone will see.

Haytham takes a deep breath. Holds it. Jumps into the water off the side of the ship.

He thinks—or imagines, maybe—that he hears Connor shout "No!" as he falls, but then he is sinking, down deep, deep, _deep_ , until he feels his lungs will burst, until the sunlight overhead darkens to absolute blackness, until the part of him that _(doesn't understand anything, doesn't know)_ begins to panic.

His lungs strain for oxygen but this is the ocean, and there is none. None a human can take advantage of, anyway. Every piece of Haytham's body is screaming at him to breathe, his own mind is fighting him for _(air, please!)_ but he doesn't give in. Not quite yet. Just a few moments more. To give the ship a chance to flee. To savor his last few moments as a _(drowning, DYING)_ human.

His vision starts to go black, a deep, cold blackness that has nothing to do with the sunless ocean and everything to do with his brain gradually giving up. He finally, reluctantly, gives in. Opens his mouth. Breathes.

Water rushes into his mouth, and for a moment there is nothing but the choking panic of drowning hopelessness. And then, like a miracle, or a curse, he changes. And although this is, in some ways, no different from becoming a squirrel or an eagle, in other ways it is something entirely, horrifyingly different. Haytham can feel himself growing, stretching, pushing outward, becoming _something else_ , and he hates it. This, whatever it is (and truly, he still has no idea—he has never seen or even heard of an animal quite like this one. Then again, a beast like this belongs to the bottommost depths of the sea, in the dark places where the monsters live, well out of sight of humans).

His mind is fading, instinct taking over. There is no room for petty human concerns in a head that was made for thoughts as wild and deep as the ocean, and Haytham is losing the fight to keep control over himself. His last thought is to hope that somehow, he will be able to find his way out of this monster again.

-/-

A tentacle the approximate size of the _Aquila_ bursts out of the surface of the water with the force of an explosion, and Ratonhnhaké:ton gasps audibly. "What _is_ that?" he demands.

Shay looks over him, frustration and pity mixing uncomfortably on his face. "Your father," he says.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him, just looks, and Shay pulls enough of his attention from steering the ship to raise an eyebrow at him. "What," he says. "No reaction at all?"

"I'm just—trying to process this." Ratonhnhaké:ton stares at the pursuing ships, less now than they had been. Giant tentacles burst from the water, and Ratonhnhaké:ton counts six, seven, _eight_ of them, each as big as a ship. A beast, a… a _monster_ like this shouldn't be possible. Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't known the tea could do something like this. This is a horror, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tries to imagine what it must feel like to turn into something like that. His imagination utterly fails him—becoming a wolf is strange enough, but this… this is…

"Wow," Connor says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton looks over his shoulder, surprised by his double's sudden appearance. He hadn't even heard Connor come up to him. Connor's face is drawn and sad as he stares at the tentacles, and he looks maybe… worried. "I never thought I would say this, but I… I feel sorry for him."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. Just a fraction. Then he turns to Shay. "You don't seem surprised," he says.

"I'm not," Shay tells him. "This isn't the first time he's done this." They're far enough away from the reaching sea monster now that they seem to be out of danger, and Shay seems to be relaxing a little. He doesn't slow the ship down, though.

"I've never heard of anything like this," Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"Well, you would have been a child then," Shay allows. "It was many years ago, back when we were just starting to realize how dangerous the king can be. There were more of us fighting him back then. Assassins, templars, soldiers from England and boys from here that had never even held a gun before.

"We weren't winning, of course. The king was more powerful than us from the beginning, but we didn't know that. We fought him on every battle front, including here. On the sea. I was to captain the _Morrigan_ —that was my ship, before the king burned her, a few years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, politely.

"Doesn't give him the right to take other peoples' ships," Connor mutters.

Shay nods in acknowledgment. "The thing is, Haytham contacted me out of the blue the day before the battle. He said he'd heard we were gearing up for a big fight, and he thought he might be able to help. And well—I was surprised, of course. He'd disappeared off the face of the Earth a few years ago, and most of us assumed he'd been killed. And he'd never much liked the sea. But he said he could help, and help was exactly what we needed." He heaves a sigh, and looks over his shoulder. One of the ships has caught fire, and another is being torn in two just at that moment.

"I'm sure you can imagine what happened," Shay says quietly. "This, in a nutshell. Except we didn't know what we were dealing with at the time. We didn't know that there was no defense against that thing except to run. I think there were three ships left at the end of the battle, out of the fifteen that started. I don't know what happened to Haytham after the fight. Captured, I assume. A few months after that, I heard Washington had him in a cell."

"And you never considered helping him escape?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

Shay isn't looking at him. He's looking back at Haytham in the water. "No," he says.

Something in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach twists unhappily. It's not that he can't understand why Shay would abandon his father to the king's mercies, but he doesn't like it. So maybe his father is also a terrible, destructive sea monster, uncontrollable as a force of nature. He's still his father.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Connor says, jolting Ratonhnhaké:ton out of his thoughts. His face is a good imitation of sympathy, but his eyes seem to say _see I told you, he's dangerous and you'd be better off without him_. Except no, Ratonhnhaké:ton knows he wouldn't. Ratonhnhaké:ton is not going to lose his father, not to the king, not to death, not even to whatever the tea has made him. Connor had made the choice to push his father away, and the result of that anger is obvious in the anger every time that version of Haytham leaks into his voice.

"What?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

"Ask Shay if we're still going to New York," Connor says. "It might not be the best idea, if Washington sent men after us from Boston. He might know where we're going."

This is patently good advice, regardless of whatever is happening to Haytham, so Ratonhnhaké:ton opens his mouth and repeats the question so Shay can hear.

"No," Shay says. "We—Haytham got rid of these ships, but there could be more lying in wait near New York. We'll dock somewhere else and wait a while, let them think we were sunk in the battle. When they let their guard down, we'll go back and hope to take them by surprise."

"Where, though?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "Is there _anywhere_ safe?"

"There's an old homestead off the coast," Shay says. "It used to be an assassin stronghold, but since the king took over, it's sort of become a place for anyone willing to fight the king. Assassin, templar, anyone else that hears about it."

"Davenport," Connor breathes, and he walks off before Ratonhnhaké:ton can get a good look at his face.

He mumbles an excuse and walks away from Shay. Connor has climbed up a mast (and Ratonhnhaké:ton has no intention of following him. Desmond is nowhere to be seen, pulled out of the animus maybe, and so Ratonhnhaké:ton finds himself a quiet place on the side of the ship, and settles down to think.

-/-

"Did you see that?" Desmond demands, when he sits up from the animus. "Did you _see_?"

"It must have been a glitch," Shaun says, but his expression when he looks at Rebecca is uncertain. "Right?"

"I don't know," Rebecca says. "That's an awfully extensive glitch, the way everyone's reacting to it."

"It's real," Desmond insists. "You weren't there, you didn't see. Or… smell, I guess. The way everyone was afraid. Why would the smell be a part of the glitch?"

"So—so that was _real_ ," Shaun says. "Great. The tea can make monsters like that, and the king is the only one with access to the tea. We're screwed."

"We can't be!" All three of them turn to look at Lucy. She's been silent since Desmond got up from the animus, but the words burst from her in an uncontrolled frenzy, and she stands up from her desk so abruptly that she sends her chair tumbling and her papers flying.

"Lucy," Rebecca says, starting toward her. "Calm down, we'll think of something. And Desmond still has more memories to go through—"

"I have been through too much already," Lucy snaps. Her voice is angry, but she smells terrified. "I can't—after all this—there _has_ to be a way!"

"Lucy!" Shaun calls, but she gives a little sob and bolts from the room.

"What just happened?" Rebecca asks.

"Stress, maybe?" Shaun asks. "That time of the month? I don't know. Honestly I'm surprised we haven't all cracked under the pressure already."

Rebecca says something after that, but Desmond doesn't hear it. Or he's not listening, anyway. It always takes a while for the weird, surreal feelings of the animus to fade, but as soon as he gets the feeling back in his legs Desmond goes after Lucy.

She's actually left the building, but it's easy for Desmond to follow her scent down the block and into an alley. Desmond hesitates a little in the mouth of the alley, because he can't think of a good reason for Lucy to be here. It looks… sketchy, for lack of a better word. Exactly the kind of place Desmond would have gone out of his way to avoid a few months ago. He almost doesn't follow Lucy any farther, but no sooner has he considered turning around than a little tingle of shame runs through him.

Is this who he is? So afraid and used to hiding that he can't walk down a dimly lit alley? It's certainly not who he _wants_ to be—he can almost hear Haytham scoffing at Desmond's reaction. He can see Connor patiently explaining that there's nothing to be afraid of as long as he's careful and aware of his surroundings. He can smell Ratonhnhaké:ton's confusion ("It's just a little dark, Desmond,"), and he feels ridiculous.

His ancestors are fighting the King for their freedom, and Desmond is supposed to be doing the same thing. He's not going to do very well if he can't follow Lucy into an alley.

So that's what he does, and he finds her sitting on an overturned garbage can, staring glumly at nothing with her chin resting in the palm of her hand. Desmond hesitates a moment, then sits down next to her. "Hey," he says. "Lucy, um… Lucy, are you alright?"

"No," she mutters. She's not looking at him.

"You know—you do know Shaun can be wrong, right? We can still beat the King, even if he does have giant sea monster things on his side." He gives her a hopeful look. "We never thought this was going to be easy, right?"

"Right," Lucy agrees, after a second. "I know, it's just that… Desmond, you have no idea what I've had to give up to be here. I can't give up anything else, I don't have anything left."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Desmond asks.

"Not really." But she reaches hesitantly over, rubbing at the soft fur around the back of Desmond's ears. It's not _exactly_ a surprise. Desmond has noticed that there's something about petting him that seems to calm people down when they're upset, the same way that dogs can cheer people up. Normally Desmond doesn't like it, but there's something about Lucy that makes everything different. She looks nice. She smells better. She almost seems to genuinely like him, for reasons that are utterly beyond comprehension. Desmond wants her to be happy, so he lets her keep going far longer than he would have let anyone else.

And somehow, along the way, he ends up liking it. Lucy's fingers are gentle and she presses against his ears in all the right places. He can't help leaning closer against her, and then all of a sudden—

Well, he's not sure who kisses whom first, but then there they are. Sitting on an upturned garbage can in a dark, dirty alley, Lucy's fingers on Desmond's ears and his in her hair, pressing themselves as close together as possible. To Desmond, it's like something light has suddenly broken through the dark place his life has been going through lately.

"Desmond," she whispers into his ear when the kiss finally ends. "I—this is—"

"Why don't you tell me what's worrying you?" he asks. "What did you have to give up that's got you so upset?"

"Me," Lucy says, after a short pause. "I used to know who I was and what I was doing. But somewhere along the way, all that got lost. My own life isn't about me anymore, it can't be. The only thing that matters is getting rid of the King, and if that happens—well, if that happens, I'll have to face what I've done."

"And what exactly _have_ you done?" Desmond asks.

Lucy hesitates. They are still so close together that he can feel her breath against his face. "I'm a templar now," she whispers at last.


	10. Chapter 10

Okay. So she's a Templar. So…

He's having a hard time thinking past her smell, which is still the same, still sending his brain into something… something instinctive and basic and… _oh_ , he wants her. Badly. The part of him that is _wolf_ couldn't care less if she's an assassin or a templar or a circus clown, and for once Desmond is glad to give into his instincts.

"I don't care about that," he says.

"What do you care about, then?" she sounds confused. What had she been expecting him to do, stab her as soon as he found out? What kind of person does she think he is?

"I care about why you kissed me," Desmond says, and his heart is hammering so hard he can hear it. That's not exactly normal, even with his sense of hearing. "Were you just… upset, or scare, or… do you really…" he swallows hard against the fear of what Lucy is going to say. "I've never been kissed before," he says lamely. "Did that count?"

"Do you want it to?"

He nods, flushing. "I kind of really like you, Lucy."

"And I kind of really like you." Her fingers brush across his ears, and Desmond shivers. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of that. The way she makes him feel special, instead of like a freak. "In any other world, this would… maybe we could…"

"Why _not_ in this world?" Desmond asks. He's thinking about Connor and Haytham, and the world they come from. No king, no tea, and somehow it had still worked out even worse for them. The Haytham from this world seems grateful and glad for a second chance to be Ratonhnhaké:ton's father.

"This is a bad world," Lucy says.

"Maybe…" he hesitates, but what does he have to lose? If he speaks, he might be able to convince Lucy not to leave. "Maybe it's the bad worlds where we need each other the most. I don't know who we are in those worlds. Maybe we're happier, I hope so. But the only world we'll ever have is this one. You can't just say it's bad and put your life on hold because you wish you'd been born in another world. All we have is here, and I think that being with you would make my world a little bit better. I really hope you can say the same thing about me."

"That was sweet," Lucy says. "But it doesn't change anything. I'm still a Templar. The king could still kill us any time."

"But I'd rather die—or live—with you. I at least want a chance at being with you."

"You barely even know me," Lucy laughs, but she doesn't look as hopeless and dismissive as she had a few minutes ago.

"His ears twitch uncertainly under her fingers. "I know you're in a class of your own," he tells her.

"A good class?"

"Top of the class."

She laughs again, and Desmond says, "You will come back, won't you?"

"The others might not be as accepting of a templar as you are."

Desmond shrugs. "So? We won't tell them."

"If we don't tell them now, you'll be in as much hot water as I am if they eventually find out on their own," she points out."

"I'll take that risk," Desmond says confidently. "Besides, it seems stupid to keep fighting templars right now. We both want the same thing, don't we? We want the King dead."

"Desmond—"

"Maybe it'll be easier if everyone's working together. It's been—what, two hundred years since he came into power? It's not like either side has had any success on their own."

"Desmond," Lucy says, and the smell of her fear finally gets through to Desmond. "Shut _up_."

He turns to look behind him at whatever it is she's seeing, and instantly understands why she's so afraid. "No…"

There are six of the king's soldiers standing there, smirking at them, and Desmond realizes with a cold, sinking horror that they've heard everything. That they want to kill the King. A confession like that—even the _suspicion_ of something like that—is a death sentence in this country. A painful death sentence, one that will be preceded by the kinds of torture people have nightmares about.

"Lucy," he says, but then the men are on them, and all Desmond knows is darkness.

-/-

Haytham washes up on a cold, rocky shore, coughing up a lungful of brackish water. He feels like death warmed over, or—no, he's frozen through as well. He's so cold, and he hurts everywhere, inside and out. It's a struggle just to remember to breathe, for a moment, and Haytham feels something like phantom limbs stretching out from where massive tentacles had been only minutes before.

"Freak."

He doesn't see the blow coming, and he's so numb he barely feels it. But it's enough to knock him sideways and half back into the water. Haytham doesn't react. There's no point. He doesn't have enough energy to get up or fight back, and anyway, he deserves it. People… monsters… _things_ like him deserve pain. They deserve to be locked up underground, like Haytham had been for years—they deserve to die, but Haytham is too much of a coward.

"You are an abomination," the voice continues, and all Haytham can do is nod weakly before he feels a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him sideways and forcing him into the water. Haytham tries to just let it happen, because if he dies here it will all be over, he won't have to fight with this thing in his head anymore.

But when he breathes in, something in him lights up and he can't stop himself from fighting back. He wants to die, but he's so, so afraid… what if whatever comes next is worse? It could be like this, an eternity of this, his humanity gone—

He kicks out and even with his strength almost gone, Haytham's foot connects solidly with whomever is holding him in the water. It's not much, but it gives him the space to sit up and roll over, coughing up brine and panting for breath. The attacker doesn't try again, which is lucky. Haytham doesn't think he has the energy to fight back any longer.

"What is _wrong_ with you?"

It's the man that had been trying to kill him a moment ago. It's him.

The other him. The one from the world Connor comes from. So they're separate now. Alright. Well—Ratonhnhaké:ton and Connor had been trapped in the same body until Ratonhnhaké:ton almost died. Maybe the same thing had happened here.

It doesn't much matter, maybe. Haytham looks at the face of his other self, although it takes a physical effort. Seeing the disdain and self-hatred he feels reflected on someone else's face is… hard. "Don't hate me," he whispers. Whimpers, really. He is so _pathetic_. But this is so disturbingly hard to see.

"Don't talk to me," his other self snarls. "I can't believe you. I can't believe a thing like you—" his lip curls. It looks like he just can't help himself. "I thought you were like me. I thought you _were_ me. But you're a mistake, a monster."

The words hit him hard and burn into his mind. He knows he'll never forget them. "I did make mistakes—"

"No. You _are_ a mistake." The tone is clipped, cold, angry. "Now get up."

"Why?"

"I can't get too far from you, and I have no intention of staying here."

"Where are we going?"

His other self grabs Haytham by the upper arm and pulls him unprotestingly to his feet. He looks well fed and well rested, healthier than Haytham or most other people in this world. The place where his fingers dig into Haytham's arm leaves bruises—he's stronger. Normal. Sane. Human.

Haytham ducks his head in shame and hurt and defeat, and allows himself to be led onward.

"You don't need to know," the other Haytham tells him grimly. "No more than a horse needs to know where it's ridden or a dog needs to know where it's led. You are below them both."

"I know." Haytham isn't entirely sure that he actually says the word out loud, or just mouths it to himself.

How far he has fallen…

And he has no one to blame but himself.

-/-

The homestead is so much like Connor remembers that it takes his breath away. When the _Aquila_ docks at the same, familiar place it always has, he grips the railing and leans forward slightly, away from Shay and toward home. "You know this place?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks him.

"I know it well," Connor says. "This was home."

"Was it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton looks around at the homestead, and Connor can understand why he looks so confused. It's nothing like the place where they had grown up, and Connor had certainly struggled with the transition when Achilles first took him in. But that had been a long time ago, and in the years since then, it has become a very important place for him. Home. He closes his eyes, trying to forget the presence of his double at his side, the templar at the help of his ship, the monster that is his father somewhere below the water's surface.

It _smells_ like home.

Ratonhnhaké:ton trails after Shay as he leads the way from the docks, because he doesn't know his way around. Connor trails after both of them because he's still trying to process this. He's known for a long time now that this is not his world, but—but this is his home. It's home, but he doesn't belong here, and somehow that drives the point home more effectively than anything else he has seen so far.

He cannot go home. _He cannot go home_.

"Connor?" Ratonhnhaké:ton says suddenly, and Connor realizes that he has lagged a little too far behind Ratonhnhaké:ton and Shay.

"I'm sorry," Connor says. He schools his face into something a little more closed off, trying not to show his unease so obviously, and picks up the pace a little.

They reach the house eventually, and Connor is surprised (although he really shouldn't be) at the way everything looks suddenly different. There are still homes and businesses, a little village set up around Achilles's house. But they are not occupied by the same people Connor has come to know and to care for over his years at the homestead. These people are strangers, and a look around in eagle vision shows that these are not innocents. They are assassins and templars, shining red and blue in almost equal amounts. Connor is surprised by how cordial the two factions look, mingling together and conversing as though there's nothing strange about this.

He also notices that neither assassins nor templars are looking kindly at Shay. It had been the same on the ship, really—the men treated him with respect, but not with friendliness. Interesting—but then, nobody really likes a traitor, and Shay had admitted to being almost but not quite a templar when Washington took over. Not being able to stand fully with either side obviously hasn't helped him win any friends.

"Where are we going?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks eventually, and Connor is not surprised to see Shay point at Achilles's house.

"The mentor of the assassins used to live there," he explains. "He's gone now—"

"Dead?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

Shay nods. "But he was one of the lucky ones—old age and illness got him before the King. There are half a dozen of us staying there now—someone will have an idea of how to get to the King."

"Thank you," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and Shay nods. They're nearly back to the house when someone comes running out—Connor recognizes Stephane Chapheau, the first person he'd ever recruited as an apprentice. It's strange knowing the man would have found his way to the assassins even without Connor's help.

"What's the matter?" Shay asks sharply.

"You will _never_ guess who just showed up at the back door," Stephane says, gesticulating with a typically wild enthusiasm.

"Who?" Shay asks.

"Haytham Kenway," Stephane says. "Washed up at the beach, then came stumbling up here—"

"Damn," Connor whispers, as his heart gradually sinks (down, down, down…). Will there never be any true escape from his father? Not even this twisted, alternate reality version of him?

Shay sighs. "Thank you," he says. He gestures toward Ratonhnhaké:ton, who is the only one that looks happy to hear that Haytham is alive. "This is Haytham's son—"

"Oh." Stephane looks at Ratonhnhaké:ton sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

"We'll go talk to him," Shay says quietly, and guides Ratonhnhaké:ton into the house, Connor still following behind.

 **-/-**

 **Future chapters will likely be shorter than previous ones have been (About 2000 words instead of 3000). I just feel like I don't have enough to say in each chapter to justify the longer length, so... yes.**

 **Also, I'm sort of trying go gauge interest in this fic- is anyone still reading it? If no one cares if I finish it, I might not (or might not for a long time, I don't know). So please, let me know how you feel.**


	11. Chapter 11

Ratonhnhaké:ton arrives in the room where his father is, and for a moment he stops in the doorway, hurt and confused. His father is standing in front of the bed, looking at him with a cold dismissal that Ratonhnhaké:ton hasn't seen from him before. He stumbles over his own feet in surprise, and something in him breaks when Haytham sneers in disapproving disgust.

Connor presses through the door behind him, and takes in the room in one quick look. Then he puts his hand on Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder, an awkward gesture of comfort. "Don't worry," he says. "That's not your father. It's mine."

Only then does Ratonhnhaké:ton look around the rest of the room and see that there are in fact two Haytham Kenways in the room. There's the angry one glaring at Ratonhnhaké:ton (or—at Connor, mostly, now that he's entered the room as well), and then there's the other one…

Ratonhnhaké:ton crosses the room so quickly that he thinks he must have done it on four legs rather than two. Funny, how easy it is to lose track. "Beast," Haytham spits at him.

"Father!" Connor protests.

Ratonhnhaké:ton ignores them both, even as they start shouting and arguing. They deserve each other, honestly, but Ratonhnhaké:ton has a father that he actually cares for, and that father is shivering on the room's narrow bed, eyes unfocused in what looks like pain. Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitates only the barest moment before kneeling down at his father's bedside and reaching a hand out toward him. The man's skin is cold and slick with sweat, and Ratonhnhaké:ton whimpers at the feel of it, the instincts of the wolf breaking through for the moment.

"Father," he says softly. "Are you…?"

His father doesn't answer, but reaches one hand out weakly toward his son. Ratonhnhaké:ton takes it in his own and holds on tight.

"A doctor came in earlier," says the man that had told them about Haytham's arrival in the first place, the one with the accent that Connor had seemed to know. "He says he has no idea what he's done to himself to be able to turn into a giant fish, but he thinks he'll recover."

"Good," Ratonhnhaké:ton says firmly, and perhaps more loudly than he needs to. But he wants to make sure his father can hear him over the sound of their other selves trading threats on the other side of the room. He doesn't want them to become like that.

"I suppose," Shay says quietly, and Ratonhnhaké:ton turns on him at once.

"You're supposed to be his friend!" he protests, and Shay looks at him in surprise.

"Well not a friend, exactly," he says. "Just… just someone I work with. Look, he used to be a good man, all the templars that worked with him agreed that. But since he drank the tea, he's been…"

"Been what?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demands.

"Different," Shay finishes, quietly. "He's not entirely human."

"He's more human than he would have been if he never drank the tea," Ratonhnhaké:ton tells Shay. He's absolutely certain of that, because he can still hear Connor's father shouting cruel, terrible things. And _he_ is supposed to be the more human version of himself? No.

"But he—"

"He's my father," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, in the best impersonation of his father's stern, matter of fact voice that he can manage. He doesn't want to be doubted, he wants to be listened to. "And he's as human as anyone else in this room."

"Of course you would say that," the other Haytham says. "You're as bad as he is, just as inhuman."

Ratonhnhaké:ton could have killed him in that moment, except that Connor looks almost ready to do the deed himself. There's no real advantage to getting in the middle of that.

The entire room seems about to boil over into a fight, but before anyone has a chance to draw their blades or say something truly unforgivable, a new man comes running in. He looks young, and gives Shay a sort of quick, respectful gesture. "Sorry," he says breathlessly. "Sorry, but I have really important news." He pauses, just a second, to suck in a deep breath, and then says—"Washington is coming. He's headed _right here_. He's coming for us."

-/-

"You don't have to stay," Haytham tells Ratonhnhaké:ton when everyone but their alter egos has cleared the room, running to make whatever preparations they can for Washington's arrival. The words are barely audible as they pass through his lips, and Haytham is not entirely sure that he's speaking clearly enough for his son to understand.

"I have nowhere else to be," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "They do not want our help to fight Washington." Haytham looks over at him, and he's not entirely sure if he's imagining the hurt in his son's eyes. Or at least, not until Ratonhnhaké:ton adds, "They only want humans in their fight."

Ah—so he is beginning to feel it. That same sense of solitude and otherness that has haunted Haytham for so many years now. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," Haytham says quietly. "Why did you drink the tea?"

Something flashes in Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes, and he straightens a bit. "To protect my people," he says. "And the land where we live—to protect _all_ the people that he puts in danger."

"Then don't let _anyone_ tell you that your choice was wrong," Haytham says, in as strong a voice as he can manage. He sits up in bed, struggling a bit against the weakness that still lingers in his arms and legs. "As long as you believe in what you are fighting for and the rightness of your methods, then the opinions of others cannot sway you."

"Do you regret taking the tea?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks doubtfully.

"I…" he considers lying, saying that he has no regrets. But he does. "I have nothing left to fight for," he says instead. "The sacrifices I made were in vain."

"Then—then I will fight for both of us," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Father, I still have another dose of the tea left. I can drink it, I can meet another spirit animal and become stronger. I can—"

" _No_!" Connor interrupts. "Do you hear yourself?"

"Do _either_ of you hear yourselves?" the other Haytham asks coldly. "What you've done to yourself is wrong. It is an _embarrassment_. You have made yourselves inhuman, which is nothing to be proud of—"

"Be quiet!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouts suddenly. He turns quickly to face them, hands clenched into fists at his side. "Both of you, just be quiet! This is not your world, even if you are stuck here with us. You do not have a stake in this as we do, you cannot know for sure what decisions you would make in our shoes."

"I can," the other Haytham says firmly.

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "And if you think so, you're a fool."

"You ignorant little _beast_ ," the other Haytham snarls at Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Haytham is out of bed in an instant, shrieking angrily as his arms become wings and _he is an eagle_ as he lunges across the room. He lands on his other self, knocking him to the ground and sinking his talon's into the man's chest. It takes a moment for him to blink and shake his head, clearing it enough to shift back into human form. He is weaker and smaller than the man he would have been in that other world, but he is also angrier.

"Do not," he snaps. "Speak to my son that way."

Connor takes a half step toward them, but then hesitates and stops just short of helping his father.

"Father!" Ratonhnhaké:ton cries out. "Don't—"

Haytham allows Ratonhnhaké:ton to pull him away, and for a moment the four of them stand in frozen tableau, each pair a sort of twisted reflection of the other. Haytham and Ratonhnhaké:ton stand shoulder to shoulder, strong only because they have each other to lean on one another. Connor and the other Haytham, in contrast, are stiff, standing with some space between them.

Silence. For a long time, there is nothing but silence.

"I am going to drink the tea again," Ratonhnhaké:ton says at last.

"And I am not going to let you stop him," Haytham adds. "This is not your world, or your fight."

"I don't care what either of you thinks," Ratonhnhaké:ton adds, as Connor opens his mouth to say something. "I don't care what anyone thinks."

"Beast," the other Haytham says again.

"But I still think I have more humanity in me than either of you," Ratonhnhaké:ton says quietly. He turns his back on the both of them, and reaches for a flask he has hidden among his things. Haytham waits until he has emptied it, then carefully helps his son into bed before settling himself down to keep watch.

-/-

Desmond and Lucy are transported to one of the thick walled outposts where the King conducts his business. It is a sad place, cold and unwelcoming, and when they arrived they are processed—fingerprinted and photographed and them immediately separated. Desmond is brought downstairs and shoved into a cell with three other men and a terrified little boy, while Lucy is taken upstairs. Probably that's where the women are being held.

"Freak," the biggest of the men spits at Desmond at seeing his ears, and after that they leave him alone. Desmond ignores them as well, huddling in a corner of their cell (he's trying _so_ hard not to think cage) and breathing through his mouth. He can't stomach the smells in here just now, fear and piss and horrible things he can't name.

The little boy tugs at one of the men, hand shaking as he grabs his sleeve. "Daddy?" he whispers. "Daddy, what's going to happen to us?"

"I don't know," his father says. He pulls his son onto his lap, hugging him tight—Desmond watches, and sees the same horror on the man's face as the boy's. They are both so, so scared. As well they should be. They're all dead.

"Are we going to be okay?" the son asks.

The father hesitates, clearly considering a lie, then shakes his head. "No son," he says.

"Are we going to die?"

A long, slow breath. "Yes."

"Oh." The boy chews on his lip, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. "Is it going to hurt?"

"Probably," his father tells him, and the boy buries his face in his hands and sobs.

"He's a child," the big man grunts, the one that had mocked Desmond a moment ago. "They might not kill him."

"Won't they?" The third man asks doubtfully.

"They'll just make him a thing," the big man says, jerking a disdainful thumb at Desmond. "Brainwash him, make him a part of the army."

The father wraps his arms protectively around his son. "Listen," he tells the boy. "If they give you a choice, you tell them to kill you instead."

"But I don't want to die!" the little boy wails.

"Better to die free than as one of _them_ ," his father says.

They are all looking quite disdainfully at Desmond, which is what suddenly makes him feel the need to defend himself. "I'm not one of them," he says.

"You're not human," the third man says.

"Because my ancestors weren't," Desmond tells him. "I've never worked with the king in my life. I hate the man as much as anyone else. Why do you think I'm here?"

"I suppose… that's sensible," the big man says reluctantly. "You're really not working with them?"

"I _swear_."

"Do they hurt?" the little boy asks, sniffling and pointing at Desmond's ears. They twitch uncomfortably under his sudden attention, and Desmond glances up at the father's face. He understands by the stern expression there what he is supposed to say—the boy's father would genuinely prefer his son be killed than that he live as something like Desmond. He wants Desmond to say that they're awful, that he hates his ears and everything about his life as a subhuman thing.

But… he cannot tell a little boy to choose death over life. Not when there is any chance at all that life might get better—so does Desmond believe there _is_ a chance of life getting better? Can he tell this boy to hold onto life and to hope, when every lesson of the last couple centuries of history is that _life never gets any better_?

"No," Desmond says softly. "They don't hurt."

The father gives him a disgusted look, and shifts his body to put himself between his son and Desmond.

No one tries talking to him again after that.

After another few hours, a set of guards comes to take all five of them away. They are quickly separated, and Desmond never sees any of them again.

 **-/-**

 **Thanks to everyone that reviewed and said they're still reading. I will of course finish this, since people are still interested.**


	12. Chapter 12

There are three people in this room that Haytham absolutely cannot stand. Two versions of Connor (one of them an assassin, the other throwing away his humanity), and… himself.

Haytham sits on the far opposite side of the room from the man wearing his face, the man that is also an eagle and a squirrel and—and… that thing. That thing in the water. He'd felt it, the transition from human to… to… He still can't put a name on what that thing had been. But the feelings are clear and sharp as a knife in his mind, and Haytham knows there is absolutely no chance that he will ever be able to forget it.

There hadn't been much of him in that other Haytham's head. Little scattered wisps, and that was all. And then, when their mind had expanded, blooming outward into something big and ancient, something with thoughts as heavy and slow as the passing of the seasons, more a force of nature than a living thing.

He had been terrified. He is still terrified, truth be told. His whole world had been shaken and turned upside down when he came here, to this strange other reality where Washington is king. But that transformation had shaken Haytham's sense of who he is—it had broken the one thing in the world he had always imagined was certain. Himself.

"It's not right," he grumbles, watching as Ratonhnhaké:ton shudders in his sleep on the floor. "There has to be a better way to fight."

"There isn't," his other self says. "There are _no_ other ways to fight this man. We've tried everything else, and nothing works."

"You don't get to have an opinion," he snaps. It's crueler than he needs to be, but Haytham needs to lash out somehow. He needs to prove to himself that he is still strong.

"I do, actually," the other Haytham says. His voice shakes (he is _not_ strong, he is not even human, but—he has his hand on Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder, and that hand is strong and steady). "I _am_ human."

Haytham opens his mouth to say something unnecessarily rude, but Connor nudges him in the side. "Don't," he whispers.

With some effort, Haytham closes his mouth. He doesn't really feel up for being angry right now, he just doesn't have the energy. So he lets himself lapse into silence, and waits with the others until Ratonhnhaké:ton stirs and wakes.

It takes him three or four tries to form actual human words (Haytham almost points this out, and forces himself not to). "We need to go," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and his voice sounds deeper and rougher than usual. Almost like a growl.

"What did you meet?" Connor asks, and he sounds just a shade uncertain.

"Bear," Ratonhnhaké:ton grunts, and Haytham catches himself nodding. He even sounds a bit like a bear at the moment, deep and slow and sort of… powerful. "Can we go?"

"You can," the other Haytham says. "I don't think I'll be much good in a fight just now."

"Will you be alright?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "With, ah—yourself?"

"I will," the other Haytham says, which seems extremely forward of him. Of course, there's no reason Haytham would actually want to hurt him—insult him, yes, perhaps, that makes him feel a bit better about himself. But hurting him seems counterintuitive. In that case, he'd risk tying himself to a corpse.

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods, and heads quickly outward, along with Connor. So that just leaves the two Haythams, alone in the room.

" _Are_ you going to hurt me?" the other Haytham asks, when there is absolutely no chance either of their sons will hear the question.

"No." Haytham doesn't quite look at him as he says it. "And I… apologize for my behavior earlier. I was—"

"Afraid," the other Haytham says quietly. "Do you think I don't understand that?"

"You don't seem afraid," Haytham says. "Even when I was in your head, you only ever seemed resigned."

"I have had a great many years to come to terms with the horror I have chosen to become," the other Haytham says, in a calm, clipped voice. "I also understand the rationale behind that decision far better than you do. You have not yet experienced enough of life here to know how badly he hurts people."

"I hope I never do," Haytham says.

"We should all be so lucky."

The room falls again into silence. Outside, they can very dimly hear the sound of fighting. A wolf's howl pierces the air, and the two Haytham's look at one another.

"Alright," the other Haytham admits. "It may have been a mistake to allow him to drink the tea again." There is worry in his voice. "He could handle two, but the third, I think, is consuming him."

-/-

Connor sees Washington before Ratonhnhaké:ton does, and the man is looking straight at him. He can _see_ Connor, so maybe this is a fight where Connor can actually do some good. He's so absurdly tired of this strange, half visible state he's been cursed with, only able to talk to himself and his father(s) and Desmond. (Although come to think of it, he hasn't seen Desmond in quite a while).

Ratonhnhaké:ton takes off running, and when he runs he is a wolf. Connor can't keep up, he only has two legs, and by the time he finally reaches Washington they are fighting. Viciously, with a kind of feral anger that Connor has never seen before, not in all his years as an assassin. Even when Ratonhnhaké:ton (with obvious, painful effort) goes back to two legs, there is… there is nothing human in his eyes. It's like this constant switching, back and forth, back and forth, eagle to wolf to bear and back, is tearing his humanity away.

Connor has seen flashes of this before, but never to this degree. It's frightening, really.

He does his best to put it from his mind, and focus on the fight in front of him. It turns out that he _can_ touch Washington, thankfully. Connor very much wants to hit something right now. Unfortunately, this puts him within range of Ratonhnhaké:ton as well, and his increasingly wild tactics are clearly making it harder for him to remember _who_ and _why_ he is supposed to be fighting.

They are all bloody when Washington finally dies.

"That's it," Connor says, and he feels like laughing. "That's it, it's over—"

(But he thinks suddenly of Desmond, and his claim that Washington is still king several centuries into the future. And somewhere in his mind, he knows that something must be wrong)

Ratonhnhaké:ton struggles and manages to return to human form. "Over," he mumbles. "Good."

Connor strides forward, toward the apple, and reaches down to pick it up. He can hear it singing to him, a strange and ethereal noise that he can't quite put into words. It's song without voice, music without true sound, nothing he's ever heard before. Something in him wants to sing back, speak to the apple, let it do as it wills. It's hard to fight, but he does his very best because this world is a mess, and it is all the apple's fault—he can't let it keep going, he can't.

But he doesn't do anything yet. "What will happen to you?" he asks.

A pause. "What?" Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"What will you do with the king gone?"

"Hunt," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Run. I—" he breaks off, looking at Connor. He looks confused.

Very gently, Connor reaches down and picks up the apple. "I could help you with this," he says. "I could undo what the tea did, make you human again—"

"No!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouts. He backs up, lowering himself defensively to all fours. "No, _my_ choice. Don't—"

"You're hurting," Connor says. "I can help!"

He raises the apple—Ratonhnhaké:ton snarls, and Connor is never after sure which of them strikes first. But in the next moment, Ratonhnhaké:ton—the wolf—is leaping on him, and he is raising the apple, reaching blindly out with a power he doesn't understand and could never have controlled.

And that's all it takes. That's all the apple needs to latch onto him, onto his mind, to take him in the same way it had taken Washington. There is a moment where he tries to fight back, but then—he is washed away, drowned by the power of the apple.

And then he is king.

-/-

There is light, light everywhere, and it makes Ratonhnhaké:ton's fur stand on end just to stand near it. He backs up nervously, wrinkling his nose against the scent of something… something bad coming from Connor. Not-Connor. He doesn't… the words Ratonhnhaké:ton needs to describe what's happened to Connor have leaked out of his head, which is too full of wolf-and-eagle-and-bear to have room left for human.

But he knows this is bad. The apple is changing Connor, his scent is all wrong and his eyes glow golden and mean. (Like the King's, like Washington's). Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at the apple Connor is holding in a death grip and thinks—maybe it wasn't Washington that was so bad. Maybe it was only ever the apple, and now the apple has Connor instead of Washington…

Ratonhnhaké:ton growls, ready to pounce on the _thing_ that used to be Connor, but he chokes on the smell (wrong, bad, wrong, WRONG, _WRONG_ ) and stumbles back, whimpering. And Connor smiles at him, a terrible smile that is as much confirmation as Ratonhnhaké:ton will ever need that Connor is gone. His double has been utterly taken over by the apple, there is nothing human left there—

Ratonhnhaké:ton turns and runs. He isn't thinking clearly in the moment, but later he'll wonder why he's able to get so far from Connor when they'd been tied to each other only a few minutes before. Even later than that, he'll think that of course it makes perfect sense. Connor isn't Connor anymore. He's not some other version of Ratonhnhaké:ton, he's a tool of the apple.

So Ratonhnhaké:ton just keeps running, all the way back to the place where he'd left his father and the other Haytham. He flies there on eagle's wings, but (just barely) remembers to return to being human so he can talk.

"Connor," he says, panting hard.

"What about him?" The Haytham that isn't his father half rises to his feet, and Ratonhnhaké:ton is not so scared that he doesn't notice Haytham is _worried_.

"He's gone," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "He—we killed Washington. But the apple wanted to do the same thing to him that it did to Washington and he couldn't stop it. _I_ couldn't stop it. He's… just a thing. For the apple."

"No," Haytham whispers. "He can't… it can't end like this. Not like this."

"We need to go," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Because he's coming after us."

"Will he hurt us?" his father asks, and Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. He is still struggling with the realization that a man who shares his face and his past could become a vessel for the apple. Just a tool that the apple can use to hurt and kill and destroy…

"Yes," he says. Because the way Connor had looked at him… had smiled at him… there's nothing human there. "I don't know if he'll kill us, but he will—he will…" He shakes his head. "I do not know what he will do. But…"

"Time to go," his father says. He struggles to rise, but falls back.

"Never mind," Haytham says. "You can't walk—"

"I might have been able to," the other man grumbles. "If you hadn't beaten the tar out of me."

Haytham chooses not to answer this, looking away in what might be anything from disdain to embarrassment.

"I'll carry you," Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

"I'm too heavy for you," his father argues. "You should leave while you can."

"I won't leave you," Ratonhnhaké:ton insists. "I can be a bear. I can carry you."

His father looks like he might be considering refusing, but then he nods. "Thank you," he says, and his approval is a bright spot in all the horror of today. Ratonhnhaké:ton lets himself fall into the strong, steady form of the bear (it feels safe, wrapped up in a shape so big and strong), and a moment later his father's weight, far too light for a full grown man, settling on his back. Fingers curl through the thick fur on his back, and Ratonhnhaké:ton feels himself calm. Just a bit.

Maybe they can make it through this. Maybe, just maybe, if they're extremely lucky, they'll all make it out alive.

 **-/-**

 **To the person that asked how long updates are going to take: um... I don't know? They'll go up when they're finished.**


	13. Chapter 13

He doesn't know why he was so afraid of the apple.

It's… nice, actually. Floating in a hazy, golden sea of light. Connor is absolutely calm for the first time since… huh. He doesn't think he's ever felt a calm quite like this. Wrapped up tight in something protective and warm. Maybe this is what it feels like to have family. Someone to depend on, no matter what. Connor feels a brief spike of jealousy aimed at Ratonhnhaké:ton. Who has a father that cares for him, who had a _mother_ , until recently—he can probably remember what it felt like to be held by her. All Connor can remember is the smell of her burning to death…

The apple soothes down the brief agitation, and in a moment he is calm again. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. The apple is here. It's all he needs. It will take care of him, it will make sure nothing bad ever happens again. It will give him safety, peace, happiness, power—everything he has ever wanted and more.

He doesn't want to be king, but the apple wants it. That's alright. It's done so much for him already, in just a few minutes. An unending eternity of perfect contentment stretches out ahead of him. All it asks of him is his body, a vessel it can use. It's such a small price to pay in exchange for this kind of happiness.

 _Happiness_. He is happy, he really is. The feeling of it bubbles out of him, and the apple pulls him in tighter, weaving golden strands of light all around him. It's beautiful like nothing he has ever seen or felt before.

Distantly, he can feel his body moving. The apple is doing… something. There is blood on his hands. Maybe it's killing someone.

Again, worry spikes up in him. Isn't that wrong? He is an assassin. He is supposed to protect the innocent. Why is the apple making him do this? Why—

The apple presses against him, more forcefully this time. It seems to be accusing him, demanding to know why he doesn't trust it to do the right thing. It is ancient and wise, it is bigger and more powerful than he could ever _dream_ of being, and he dares to question it? To _accuse_ it of doing wrong?

No, of course not. Connor makes himself small in his own mind, curling up and shrinking down and saying _no no no,_ of course not, of course the apple knows better than he does. But he is curious now, and peeks out through his own eyes—the apple's eyes (of course, because the apple needs a body and he willingly surrenders his) to see what is going on.

There are dead men all around. Oh. That's… (the apple whispers to him, soothes him, again and again) that's alright. The apple must have a reason. He watches it at work, watches it reanimating the corpse of the last man it had tried to make King. Why, though? The apple has him now, why does it need Washington? The apple reassures him, promises that he is the favorite (the favorite, _finally_ , after a lifetime of never being enough, of being hated by his father, being nothing but a replacement to Achilles, being second even to Ratonhnhaké:ton, here)—but Washington still has his uses. Because rebellion (stupid, pointless rebellion) will come again, just as it has here, today. Far better for the peons to have Washington to fight, a stupid, empty shell. No one needs to know Connor exists. He will be safe, as long as the world thinks Washington is still king.

Connor almost melts with gratitude, that the apple is putting thought and effort into keeping him safe. When has anyone ever taken care of him like this, the apple asks him—and Connor knows that no one ever has. For the thousandth, the millionth time, he thanks the apple for deigning to even notice him, much less care for him, protect him…

Maybe this is what love feels like?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a long buried memory of his mother stirs. Her voice rises up in protest against this, but—she is dead. She left you, the apple reminds you. She let herself be killed, she could have protected you—you never needed her.

Not like he needs the apple. He needs it like he has never needed anything before in his life.

The apple sends Washington off to take care of things, eliminate the last of the templars and assassins that have survived the attack so far. When Connor feels a second of doubt, the apple promises him that this is a fresh start. He is so tied down by these meaningless divides. Better to kill them all and be done with it.

Connor resists this for a moment, and the apple sends a spike of pain, a sort of _LISTEN TO ME_ into his mind. He flinches back and agrees at once.

The apple moves his body forward again, past the body of men and women he had fought with (or simply fought) in his own world. He recognizes them, recognizes that he should be upset by their deaths. But they are not as important as the apple. Connor isn't sure what he's doing, but when he asks, the apple is curiously reluctant to tell him. He doesn't mean to press, but he wants to know.

The apple reminds him that there is someone else that knows Washington is dead, and that the apple has chosen Connor instead. And Ratonhnhaké:ton has no doubt told his father (fathers?) by now. They all have to die—

No! Connor has no control over his body, no desire to take that away from the apple, no true desire to fight the apple at all—but he _has_ to fight this, because… because it can't hurt Ratonhnhaké:ton. He hadn't been cruel to Connor. He had been like a brother to him. And father… Haytham…

No…

The apple tries to calm him again but this time it doesn't work. Because this is his family, and they are nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the apple, but—but—

There is no other choice, the apple tells him. They must die—

No. No, Connor has another idea. They are only a threat as long as they are human. But they are mostly animal anyway. The tea has almost ruined Ratonhnhaké:ton, no doubt it had done worse to his father. And the other-Haytham cannot be a threat, Connor had been able to kill him even without the apple. Please, Connor begs. Take their humanity away. Not their lives.

The apple considers this. Agrees. Ensures that Connor _knows_ how much he owes it for this favor. And then it goes to find Ratonhnhaké:ton and Haytham.

-/-

Ratonhnhaké:ton cannot carry his father far. He is too tired. Too afraid. They travel until nightfall and then Ratonhnhaké:ton falls to the ground, sliding out of bear form and back to being human. His father falls with him, from the place where he had been resting on Ratonhnhaké:ton's back. The other Haytham, the human one that doesn't belong in this world, stands guard over them.

"He's going to kill us," Ratonhnhaké:ton says softly. He presses himself against his father's back, too tired to care that he is too old to look for comfort like this. "The other me—I'm going to kill myself."

"Only if you stop fighting," the other Haytham says dismissively (but Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks he sounds worried). "He's no God. He's not an invincible monster."

"He killed you," Ratonhnhaké:ton's father mumbles. This shuts Haytham up completely.

It does not take long for Connor… for the thing that _had been_ Connor… to find them. Ratonhnhaké:ton does not even try to fight. His father is still recovering from being a giant sea monster. Just walking would have been a struggle.

"I won't kill you," Connor whispers, bending over Ratonhnhaké:ton. He doesn't sound like Connor—his voice echoes, harmonizes. Ratonhnhaké:ton might almost have called it beautiful, if he'd heard it without knowing the story. "He made me promise—so as long as I am king, _you will not be allowed to die_."

"Who made you promise?"

Connor doesn't answer. He just smiles, cruelly, and leans forward, both hands outstretched. The first finger of his right hand rests on Ratonhnhaké:ton's forehead, the first finger of his left hand on his father's. And then there is a pulse of golden light that blinds Ratonhnhaké:ton, races through his mind and into his body, spreads through him like a plague. His body twists and convulses, and he fights it, fights, _fights_ —

He falls back into the form of the bear, and then in an instant to the wolf, and then in another second he is an eagle. Ratonhnhaké:ton screeches in pain and protest, spreads his wings and takes flight. His whole mind is on fire with horrified confusion, something has been taken from him, something important, but he can't—he can't think clearly, he can't remember. Thought fades. Instinct takes over.

A second eagle joins him in the air, and Ratonhnhaké:ton feels himself relax a little. Complex feelings, too big and strong for the bird he is, fill his mind. Father is here, father is alright. Shaking a little, unsteady on his wings, but alright. When father lands on a tree branch nearby, Ratonhnhaké:ton lands next to him. Takes a breath. Tries to think. He knows his father. And he knows he is an eagle. He knows… he is a wolf. And a bear. That's all he knows. Does he need to know more? It _feels_ like there should be something else there, another shape, more things that he knows. But it's gone.

A man watches Ratonhnhaké:ton and father from the ground, and something about him makes Ratonhnhaké:ton want to fly. That is a bad man. Bad. All wrong. But in another moment, the man has moved on. Ratonhnhaké:ton relaxes, and moves closer to father. The eagle-instincts in his head are telling him that it is better to be alone, but some things are more important than instinct. Father is. Family is.

There is another man on the ground, and… and he is father too, somehow. Not as nice, but still father in a strange kind of way. Ratonhnhaké:ton spreads his wings again, lets himself glide to the ground. There, he changes from eagle to wolf. In this shape, he can smell the defeat in other-father, the misery and the regret. Ratonhnhaké:ton pushes his nose into other-father's hand, whines a little. Bird-father follows him down, lands awkwardly on other-father's shoulder. His shape twists and changes until he is a squirrel instead (and Ratonhnhaké:ton very _firmly_ pushes away the thought that he is prey). Other-father sighs, and shakes his head. Says something, but he speaks human words that Ratonhnhaké:ton does not know (…anymore? Did he know them once?).

Other-father starts walking. Slowly. Like a man with the whole world on his shoulders.

And for many long years, that is life. Ratonhnhaké:ton and father and other-father, wandering the world long after they should be dead. Everything else dies around them. Other humans. Other wolves. Other eagles and squirrels and bears. Father has another shape, one that Ratonhnhaké:ton only sees once, even though they watch the seasons turn around them hundreds of times. It's horrible.

They don't die when they should, they just live on and on and on. Maybe it is because of what the bad-man had done to them, what he had taken away.

Sometimes, Ratonhnhaké:ton wishes he _could_ die. There is not enough room in his head. Thought hurts. He feels like he should be more than what he is. He feels trapped in the three shapes he has to choose from. None of them are his. Sometimes, he tries to pretend he is normal. He will spend years or decades in a single shape, a wolf among wolves or an eagle on his own. But other animals know he does not belong with them. They shun him, hunt him. And he cannot die, but he _can_ be hurt.

Once, only once, many-many seasons later, he seeks out a mate. But when the pups are born, one is different. She changes from wolf to eagle to bear and then to _human_ , and lies there crying at the top of her lungs as Ratonhnhaké:ton curls himself around her, terrified of what is happening to his pup and powerless to help her. In the end, other-father comes and helps him take the pup to the humans, kneels there with his hand gently stroking Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears as he leaves his pup for humans to find.

Ratonhnhaké:ton whimpers and whines, and his pup cries in answer. Humans (tainted by the smell of starvation and fear) walk past her, ignore her—Ratonhnhaké:ton wants to jump at them, force them to take care of her. He doesn't know what to do with a human pup, she is not like all her littermates, safely and completely canine. But finally one of the humans picks her up and takes her home, and Ratonhnhaké:ton has to be satisfied with that.

"So that's how Desmond came to be," other-father says when this happens. His words make no more sense to Ratonhnhaké:ton now than they ever have, but he recognizes that other-father needs to talk sometimes. Sometimes he stops for years or decades at a time, and when he tries to speak again his voice is scratchy and rough and broken. Now he practices. Other-father nods to himself and stands, whistling for bird-father to join them. "I always wondered…" When they are three again, they leave the human settlement behind.

But they do not go far. Because some instinct that is deep and complex and more difficult to understand than any wolf- or bird- or bear-instinct won't let him abandon his pup completely. He watches her. And when her chick is born (human again, but with wings), Ratonhnhaké:ton watches him. And then the chick has a cub (big and rough like a bear), Ratonhnhaké:ton watches him.

Then his pup is born, and he has ears like a wolf, and the humans call him _Desmond_.

And something in Ratonhnhaké:ton knows that things will change soon. Because something in him knows _Desmond_ , knows the name, knows the smell of the pup. He is important. He knows things. Maybe he can help.

Maybe he will save them.


	14. Chapter 14

They take Desmond to a sort of examination room, and poke and prod at his ears.

"This might be him," one of the guards tells the other. He says it quietly, but Desmond has fucking wolf ears and of course he hears them. It worries him, because if he is 'him,' whoever 'him' is supposed to be, then Desmond is in a lot more trouble than he'd thought (and he'd already thought himself in a lot of trouble). That means the king or his men are looking for him, and that means… something worse than an ordinary death is waiting for him.

"Do we tell the king?" the second guard asks the first.

" _We_ don't," the first says. "You think either of us is walking out of here alive if we're wrong? No—we'll pass this up the chain, let someone else deal with it."

"Sounds good to me," the second guard says, with obvious relief. "Let's go find the captain."

When they're gone, Desmond sits up on the exam table and tries to breathe normally. He's still struggling not to hyperventilate when he smells something animal in the room. And it's not just animal, it's also… familiar. Desmond sits where he is, face slightly upturned, trying to get enough of the scent to place it. Where has he smelled this before? Because he definitely has—every animal has a distinct scent, as recognizable as a person's face. And Desmond remembers making a particular note of this one. He closes his eyes, tries to will himself back into the place and time he had been in when he first smelled this.

And he remembers… he remembers being at a dock, and he remembers Haytham turning into a squirrel… but that… it can't be that smell, can it? Because Haytham Kenway had lived hundreds of years ago, he's Desmond's ancestor. How can he still be alive?

But Desmond can smell him here.

What?

He hops off the table and follows the smell until he finds a little hole in the wall. He puts out a hand, and after a moment a squirrel hops through and onto his palm. Desmond eyes it uncertainly—it definitely smells like Haytham. And… he thinks it sort of looks like him. But honestly he has less than great vision, and… one squirrel looks a lot like any other. Desmond stares at the rodent in absolute confusion.

"Are you…?" he doesn't finish the question, because he feels kind of stupid talking to a squirrel.

The door makes a screeching noise as it opens, and Desmond turns around quickly, stashing the squirrel in the pocket of his hoodie as he turns. It makes the pocket bulge weirdly, but hopefully the guards won't notice. "Come on," one of the guard barks at him. It's the first one from before, the one that had told his partner Desmond might be 'him.' He sounds smug, and Desmond thinks with a sinking heart that maybe he is the one they've been looking for.

"Where are we going?" Desmond asks. He tries to make his voice hard and tough, but it comes out as more of a squeak. The guard doesn't say anything, just laughs and turns around. Desmond takes the opportunity to move the squirrel out of his pocket and put him back on the floor. Wherever he's going next, he doesn't need to drag the squirrel down with him.

He turns before the guard can snap at him again, and follows the pair down the hall. "In here," the second guard says, and Desmond is shoved sideways into a room with the word _security_ on the door. He falls hard on his ass, and gets a glimpse of the squirrel dashing through the door after him. And behind the squirrel is… Haytham. The not so nice one from Connor's world. He doesn't look any more solid than the last time Desmond had seen him, but… but what is he doing here? Why is he still alive?

Desmond opens his mouth to ask one of the hundred or so questions burning in his mind, but Haytham shakes his head quickly and says, "Quiet."

He shuts his mouth. Haytham's voice is rough, and it sounds like he hasn't had anyone to talk to in a very long time.

"They can hear you," Haytham goes on. "But they can't hear me. So be quiet, and listen."

The guards are rooting around on shelves for… something. Probably something horrible. Haytham glances at them, then back at Desmond. "I don't think you have much time," he says grimly.

-/-

Haytham had not particularly liked Desmond, two hundred odd years ago when they had first met. He had been a strange visitor to their time, not much of a help. But he knows Connor, and he can identify him. There is no doubt at all in Haytham's mind that Connor will try to kill or otherwise remove Desmond from play. Time after time, Haytham has watched the people of this world attempt to rise up against the King. He has watched them throw everything they have, all their resources, their very lives, at killing Washington. Some of them have gotten very close indeed. But they'd all miscalculated, because none of them had known that Washington is nothing but a puppet. While they are distracted with him, Connor kills them all. Every time.

It's been… difficult to watch.

That means that Desmond is the only one that knows about Connor. He may not even know that Connor is the king, Haytham remembers Desmond vanishing a while before that. But he has spent the last two centuries watching his son gradually grow less and less sane, and more and more paranoid. He has no doubt at all that Connor will eliminate Desmond just on the off chance that he'd seen something.

Haytham is inclined to let him live for the same reason. If anyone, anyone at all, will ever have a chance of stopping Connor, it will have to be someone that knows the truth. And that means Desmond. There is literally no one else.

He glances over at the boy in question, and sees Desmond looking pleadingly back at him. No doubt waiting for his promised explanation. Haytham clears his throat (it's been far too long since he spoke at any great length, but he'll have to, now). "Washington has been dead for centuries," he begins. Desmond's mouth falls open in absolute _shock_. "Ratonhnhaké:ton and Connor killed him. The apple passed from Washington to Connor, and it's been—" his face spasms for a moment before he can get it under control. "It's been possessing him ever since. Don't ask how that works, I have no idea—but I can tell you that he will try and kill you. He has been waiting over two hundred years to kill you, because you knew who he was before he was a walking sack of meat for the apple to use. You are a threat to him, as no one else ever has been."

Desmond is pale as snow, but he doesn't say whatever it is he's so obviously bursting to say. Instead, his eyes flick downward to the squirrel, and then back up to Haytham. The guards are on Desmond now, tying him up. Haytham watches them, and is disappointed to see that these men are clearly experienced in this.

"No," Haytham says, when the question in Desmond's eyes gets more urgent. "Connor's taken care of all the rest of us already. I'm invisible. I pose no threat. And the other two…" he sighs and reaches a hand down to the squirrel. It chitters in a familiar kind of way, friendly but generally uninterested. Of course it is. Animals simply don't care about humans the way other humans do.

"He and I were once the same," he says. "For the first several decades of our lives, we were identical. We were born to the same father. Lost him in the same tragedy. Grew up in the same way. Fell in love with the same woman. Fathered the same son. But then things changed, and… never mind, we don't have time for that. But the apple _took_ them." He points again at the squirrel. "Ratonhnhaké:ton and him. It took away everything human about them. They are no more a threat than any other wild animal. As far as I can tell, they are nothing but instinct and fur any longer."

"Shit," Desmond breathes.

One of the guards hits him on the back of the head, and then cuffs his wrists together with what looks like a brand new pair of handcuffs. Fresh out of the box. "Walk," he says. "The king wants to see you."

-/-

Seeing Desmond again, after hundreds of years, is strange. Some part of Connor (beaten, battered, full of holes where the apple has taken pieces of him away) curls up happily at the familiar sight. He likes Desmond.

But Desmond wants to kill the king, the apple reminds him. And _Connor_ is the king.

Except—Desmond doesn't know that, does he? Connor only remembers him ever talking about Washington. So—so it's okay, isn't it? They don't have to hurt him.

He asks without any real thought that he'll get what he wants. It has been so long now since the apple took his body that Connor knows what it is likely to give ground on, and this is not one of those things. But he has to try.

So, question asked, Connor doesn't even wait for the apple to say no. He knows it will, so he curls up deep inside his head where he won't have to watch while the apple does what it wants.

Unfortunately, he still has to listen.

"You've taken an inconveniently long time to be born, Desmond," the apple says. "Loose ends are difficult. You are one that should have been eliminated a very long time ago."

"Oh," Desmond says, with complete relief. " _Good_."

Surprise stirs Connor into moving a bit, peeking out through his eyes to see that Desmond is actually, illogically smiling. The apple seems confused as well. "Good?"

"I didn't want Connor to kill me," Desmond says. "But you only look like him." He shrugs, an awkward gesture with his hands chained behind his back. "I know I have to die. I'm terrified. But a second ago I really thought that you were Connor, and I didn't want to be killed by a friend."

The apple considers this in confusion for a moment, then writes it off as human sentiment. Unimportant. Desmond still has to die.

"Can I talk to him first?" Desmond asks, just as the apple is preparing to wipe him off the face of the planet.

"What?"

"To Connor," Desmond says. "He's my friend, I want to say goodbye."

"No," the apple says.

"Why not?"

The apple ignores this. It reaches one lazy hand up to straighten the crown on Connor's head, and gets up. It is ten feet between it and Desmond. Then five. And then it is right on top of him. It reaches over, and closes both hands around Desmond's neck.

"Don't you want to hurt him, too?" Desmond asks abruptly, just as the apple starts to tighten Connor's hands around him. He sounds just a little bit desperate now, and breathless. "You hurt and you kill and you ha—" he chokes for a moment. "Hate everyone. But there _has_ to be some Connor left in there somewhere, there has to be—" The apple is no longer squeezing, although its hands don't exactly relax, either. "And you must be so sick of him by now. Sharing yourself with a human? That has to be really hard for you. Why don't you give us just a minute? I'll die. He'll be in pain. Isn't that exactly what you want?"

Connor doesn't want to be in pain. The apple is his protection, it is his light and his everything. He can't be without it, and when he sees the apple _actually start to consider Desmond's suggestion_ , Connor tries desperately to burrow deeper into his head, but that seems to be all the confirmation the apple needs to know that this really will hurt him, and for the first time in ages, Connor has full control of his body, his mind—everything.

It's the worst thing he's ever felt. There is a pain to having a physical body again after all this time, but more than that there is a sort of dawning horror, an unbearable revulsion as memory after memory of what he's done flashes through his mind. He'd—he'd killed people. _Innocents_. Enslaved, hurt, tortured—

He's a monster, he's…

Connor falls, slipping away from Desmond and hitting the floor hard. The apple laughs and laughs and _laughs_ at him, reveling in the pain it has brought him. How could he have let the apple do all that" How could he have not even known it was _wrong_?

"Connor?" Desmond asks, and there are cool hands on his face. Desmond's hands. How—hadn't they been cuffed behind him.

"I'm so—" he cries. Sobs. He's done so many terrible things, the weight of them is tearing him apart. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Me too," Desmond says quietly, and he takes his hands off Connor's face, raising them to about eye level. "I couldn't think of another plan." Connor has just enough time to think that maybe something is wrong before Desmond brings his hands back down, hard. The metal in his cuffs hits Connor's head in just the wrong place, and all he knows is darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

"Brilliant," Haytham says, with absolute sarcasm. "Now we have a dead King on our hands, and an entire fortress full of guards between us and the exit." He considers this, then rephrases. "Between you and the exit, I mean. What with me being invisible."

"He's not dead," Desmond mutters, not quite looking at Haytham. "He's unconscious."

"Even better," Haytham says. "He can wake up and kill you himself."

"The apple transferred to him after he killed Washington," Desmond says. "I don't want that."

Haytham opens his mouth, but for once he can't think of anything smart to say. Possibly he's just out of practice, but on the other hand—Desmond has apparently thought this this through. For a spur of the moment plan where the other option was being throttled to death, it's maybe actually a little bit clever.

There are, however, still an excessive amount of guards between Desmond and freedom. As long as Connor is still alive, Desmond has bought himself a temporary stay of execution, at best. "What are you going to do now?" Haytham asks.

"Um…" Desmond stands up, and glances toward he door. "I think I might just try walking out of here," he says.

"What?"

"I need the cuffs off first, though," Desmond mutters. "Dad tried to teach me when I was a kid, but of course I didn't listen—do you know how to get out of these?"

They work it out, eventually, and then Haytham watches Desmond take several deep breaths and nod to himself. "You're really just planning to walk out of here?" he asks.

"I can't really fight," Desmond says. "I'm no good at stealth. But I mean… I spent almost a decade making people think I was human. I'm a pretty good liar."

"What?"

Desmond doesn't answer, so Haytham follows along behind him as the younger man goes hurrying out toward the door. Outside, of course, there are guards waiting, and they draw their weapons in almost perfect synch as Desmond comes out, apparently alone. The closer of the two reaches out, grabs Desmond's arm—but Desmond shakes him off. "Hey," he says, and Haytham thinks the only reason he can see Desmond is nervous is that he knows he _should_ be. "What are you doing?"

"You—"

"You're going to assault the king's guest?" Desmond asks.

"Guest?" The man's face goes white, and he takes a hurried step back from Desmond.

"Obviously," Desmond says. "Do you think I'd be walking out of there alive if the king didn't like me?"

"I—you—" the guards are still backing away from him, and Haytham feels his reluctant respect for Desmond growing. This is actually going to work. "Apologies, sir, obviously we had no idea who you were."

"Obviously," Desmond agrees. "I need the woman that came in with me."

"She was sent to the tearoom," the guard says quietly. "For—for initiation."

"Then I need to see her _fast_ ," Desmond says, and he only waits long enough for the guard to point him in the right direction before taking off running, calling for them to radio ahead to the other guards so they know not to stop him.

"Initiation?" Haytham asks. "Do I want to know?"

"All new members of the guard have to drink the tea," Desmond says. "It sets them apart from normal people, and makes them dependent on the king."

"Who's this woman that's about to be initiated?"

"A friend of mine," Desmond says.

"Stop," Haytham says. When Desmond keeps running, Haytham grabs him and pins him against the wall. " _Stop_ , Desmond. Think. This is your one chance to get out of here, and you need to put as much distance between the fortress and yourself as you can before Connor wakes up. Because he _will_ come after you, and if he finds you he _will_ kill you in as painful a way as you can imagine."

"I can't leave her," Desmond says.

"Then you won't live."

"I—" he's obviously weakening, but not quite giving up yet. "I never expected to make it this long."

"Desmond, you're being a fool!"

"Would you have left Connor's mother?" Desmond demands. It hits Haytham like a slap to the face, and he physically reels.

"That's different."

"It's _not_ ," Desmond insists. "Because no one else has ever cared about me like that. No one, okay? I just met her, and she—she's special, she doesn't care about how messed up I am, she doesn't care about these!" He points to his ears. "I—" He shakes his head and starts running again without saying another word. Haytham follows.

-/-

The guards obviously know Desmond is coming, because he doesn't meet any resistance when he gets to the tearoom. "Where is she?" he demands of the closest guard.

"Who?"

"The woman I came in with!"

He's angry. Scared. He's doubting himself, which is nothing new except that until Haytham voiced his complaint, Desmond had felt certain of this one thing. He'd felt certain of Lucy.

"She's already… already…"

The guard's voice fades as Desmond's ears start ringing. "She already drank the tea?"

The man nods. Desmond hits him. "Where is she?"

"There, there!"

He nods and sprints in the direction the guard had indicated. The tearoom is nothing but a long corridor with little kennels on either side. Most of them are open and unlocked, and Desmond can see people inside. Hunched over and miserable mostly. Some are passed out. One or two look like they might be dead. Then there are the kennels with the doors shut, the ones where humans (or animals that might once have been humans) snarl and roar and crash violently against the walls.

Desmond tries not to look, but he needs to find Lucy. Every cage is a moment of panic (is that her? Is that what they did to her?), followed by relief when he realizes it's not her, and then mounting fear as he turns toward the next one.

She's at the far end of the hall, and Desmond half recognizes her scent before he ever sees her face. It's changed. It's not completely human anymore. Desmond ducks into the kennel and crouches over her, shaking her until she stirs groggily and groans.

"Lucy!" he says. "Lucy, are you alright?"

She whimpers, a definitely inhuman noise. "No," she says. "No, I'm not okay…"

Desmond slides closer to her, holding her as she starts to cry. "You will be," he promises. "You're strong."

"They made me drink it. They made me—"

"I know," he says. "I know, Lucy, but—we have to go. Okay? We can talk later, I promise. Can you move?"

After a long pause, Lucy says, "I think so."

"Good," Desmond says encouragingly. "Come on. We need to get somewhere safe, and then we'll talk more. It's all going to be okay."

"No…"

"I'm getting you out if I have to carry you," Desmond promises her. "But I would really appreciate you helping."

She nods and staggers to her feet. Desmond has to help her as they stagger through the tearoom, but they make it. Haytham's voice in Desmond's ear telling him to hurry isn't… super helpful.

But even with that distraction, they make it.

Desmond keeps pushing Lucy to keep moving until they get outside the town and into the wilderness beyond. He knows towns and cities in other countries don't all have forests around them like the US does. The king… Connor… the apple… _whatever_ likes to keep things isolated. There's a vast wilderness with only a few rough roads leading through it for Desmond and Lucy to hide in. He's planning to take advantage of it.

He makes her as comfortable as he can, finds her somewhere dry and warm to stay, and brings her fresh water. When he comes back with it, she looks marginally better, and there's a wolf sitting at her side, next to Haytham. Desmond breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes Ratonhnhaké:ton's scent. His and… yes. There's an eagle nearby, watching with an expression that is unmistakably Haytham.

"Desmond," Lucy says quietly. "These are… these are your ancestors, aren't they?" She drops her gaze, and her voice sounds defeated. "They smell a little like you."

He sits down next to her and Lucy leans against him. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should have come faster."

"I don't need you to save me," Lucy says stiffly. Then she softens a little. "Even though you did. Thank you."

"I never would have left you behind," Desmond promises. "Never." Lucy leans farther into him, and Desmond takes a deep breath in. It's weird, but he… _really_ likes her new smell. "Who did you meet?" Desmond asks. "What animal?"

Lucy hesitates. "A wolf," she says.

"Really?"

"Yea. And the funny thing is that I was scared. I'm still scared. But when I saw the wolf, I wasn't. Just for a little while."

"I think that's normal," Desmond says. "Connor and Haytham always seemed to trust the animals they met."

"Maybe," Lucy says. "But I mean… I wasn't scared because the wolf reminded me of you. And I'm glad—if everything that happened was going to happen anyway, at least I met a wolf."

No wonder he likes her smell so much—it's just two of his favorite things mixed up together into something even better. Lucy and the wolf. "Do you really feel safe with me?"

"Even now," Lucy tells him.

Far off in the city, alarms begin to blare.

-/-

Desmond is human but a friend. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't mind helping him (and anyway, Ratonhnhaké:ton still remembers the fear of his pup turning into a human, the helplessness of not knowing what to do for her. He knows that Desmond comes from her, that he is family, _pack_ ). So when Desmond tells him to run, to go in a big circle through the trees and come back, Ratonhnhaké:ton just does it.

He likes to run, and besides, after a while people start to chase him. They're _bad_ people. They smell of gunpowder and sweat and bad, bad things—Ratonhnhaké:ton lets them chase him for a while, and then he turns around and makes them stop. He doesn't like killing people, people are dangerous and have weapons that hurt, but he doesn't mind scratching and biting until they go running away. Father helps. He is an eagle today, swooping down on them and scratching at their faces.

When the bad men are gone, Ratonhnhaké:ton runs back to Desmond and other-father. And the girl. He doesn't know what to think about the girl, yet. She smells like a human but also like a wolf, all mixed up. But she seems sad, not bad, so Ratonhnhaké:ton lets her be. He lies next to other-father, and waits while he talks to Desmond. He doesn't understand their conversation, but the sound of it is a comforting rhythm.

"We have to go to the assassins," Desmond says. "Shaun and Rebecca will still be waiting for me and Lucy to come back."

"Will they be able to help us?" other-father asks.

"Better than staying in the woods," Desmond says.

Other-father makes a quiet, thoughtful noise. "Do you know what might help?"

"Do you?"

"Another apple," other-father says.

"No," Desmond says. "No—"

"Desmond!"

"No, absolutely not! Look how much trouble the first one caused!"

"People have been using pieces of Eden for centuries," other-father says. "Even before I was born, it had been centuries. And nothing like this has ever happened before. Something about the combination of this apple, these people, this specific set of events. That's what set it all this off. What else can fight an apple except another apple?"

"But…" Desmond sighs, and looks over at the woman. He repeats most of what other-father had said to her, then asks, "What do you think?"

"Why not?" she asks. "Can things get worse?"

"Yes."

"I don't think so," the woman says, looking away. "I… really don't think they can."

"Desmond?" other-father prompts.

"Let's try," Desmond says softly. "How do we find them?"

"Well…" other-father hesitates. "That's what I don't know. All I have are stories about the people that used them. And I don't know—"

"I do," the woman says. "I've heard those same stories. Altair. Ezio Auditore." Other-father is nodding. "They used apples like this one. And… they're also your ancestors. Vidic looked into your DNA while we had you, um…"

"Captive?" Desmond prompts.

"Yea."

"So…" Desmond sighs. "So this means more time in the animus?"

"Well." The woman smiles for the first time. "Only if you want to save the world."


	16. Chapter 16

"Well," Shaun says, when he's heard the full story.

"That's all you have to say?" Lucy asks. Her voice is dead, and she won't look at him. On the way back to the safe house, Desmond had convinced her to tell the whole story, including her defection to the Templars. He'd argued that they couldn't afford secrets, any secrets, right now. Lucy had not so much agreed as given up. Desmond is worried about her.

"I'm still processing," Shaun says.

"I'm not," Rebecca says. "I have a question."

"What?"

"Will the Templars help?"

"Becca!" Shaun protests. "How can you even suggest that's a good idea?"

"Because it is," Rebecca says. "We know we need an apple to kill… Connor, I guess. And we know Desmond's ancestors have interacted with them. But we're low on resources and I doubt we have much time before Connor tracks us down. Not if killing Desmond is so important to him."

"Thanks," Desmond mutters.

"We need help."

"Templars?" Shaun says doubtfully.

"They want the king dead too," Lucy says. She looks down at the ground when Shaun looks in her direction. Desmond shifts closer to her, because the way they've broken her isn't okay. Something, maybe her secrets coming out or being forced to drink the tea, maybe both those things combined, but something has destroyed her.

"How do we get away from them after it's all over, though?" Shaun asks.

"Does it matter?" Desmond asks. "It'll be over. That's the whole point, isn't it? Whatever happens next is… nothing. _Nothing_ , compared to what Connor can do."

"Fine," Shaun says quietly. "Lucy… can you…?"

"I'll get in touch with them," she promises. "I'm sorry."

She hurries off to make her call in private, and Desmond waits until he hears the sound of her talking on the phone end before following her. She's sitting glumly against a wall, staring at her phone.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Lucy says. "I told Vidic we'd come to him. I thought Shaun might be a little less upset if the safe house stays safe."

"The assassins will never use it again anyway," Desmond points out. "You've seen it."

"Guess so," Lucy says.

Something's wrong with her. Something is so, so wrong, and Desmond wants to help. "Please," he says. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't."

"Lucy—"

"I can't tell _you_."

"Oh. I—" He'd thought she trusted him.

"I'll hurt you if I tell you."

"That's okay," Desmond promises. "We're friends, aren't we? Friends can share their burdens with each other."

"But…" then she makes a face that seems to say she's tired of caring. "I want to be human again."

"Oh."

"I know that's a horrible thing to say," Lucy says. "Especially to you. You've always been like… like this, but Desmond…" she shudders and wipes tears from her face. "I don't know how to deal with this."

He's heard people tell him he's messed up and wrong for being part wolf his whole life. It shouldn't hurt now, but coming from Lucy… Lucy, who likes him, whose life he has just saved, who _is like him_ … "What's scaring you?" he asks. "Exactly."

"I don't know—"

"Yes you do," he insists. "Think, Lucy."

"Everything smells so…" she gestures vaguely, struggling for words. "Detailed. I never knew things could smell like this. I don't know how to process everything, I don't know what it means."

"You'll get used to it," Desmond promises. "And I'm here for you, okay? If you have questions or anything, I'm here to help."

She hesitates for a very long time, then says, "I do have a question, actually."

"What?" Lucy's almost whispering, so Desmond drops his voice too.

"Will you kill me when I lose my mind?" Lucy asks.

"What?" Desmond physically jerks away. "No, Lucy, no! I'm not going to kill you! And you're _not_ going to go crazy."

"I am though," she says. "You got your ears from Ra—Rato… from your ancestor. Mine came from the tea. And the tea always, _always_ makes people go crazy. Maybe it'll be a week from now, maybe it'll be a year. But eventually I'll go the same way as all the soldiers Connor's given the tea to over the years. Ever heard of one of them lasting long?"

"No," Desmond admits.

"No," Lucy agrees. "No, they never do. And neither will I."

Desmond looks around, trying to think of anything at all to say. His eyes land on his two ancestors, perched together as eagles on a high place near the ceiling. He whistles at them the way he'd heard Haytham do it earlier, and first one, then the other, stirs and flies down to him and Lucy.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"This—" he gestures to the two eagles, then reaches forward and takes her hands. "This is my family. This is all I have, except for my dad and he doesn't really count. I'm saving you, okay? All three of you. We're going to find an apple anyway, and we already know they can make humans into animals. I'm sure they can do the reverse, too."

One of the birds (it's harder to tell them apart by scent when they're eagles, but Desmond thinks it's Ratonhnhaké:ton) looks up at him and makes a sad, pleading noise like a chirp. Desmond nods.

"Just don't give up," he says, and he's not sure if he's talking to his ancestors or Lucy or to himself. "You can't."

-/-

They meet with Vidic later that afternoon, in a cramped building that Haytham assumes must be relatively unimportant to the Templars. The old man seems just as mistrustful of the assassins as they are of him, but brings only one guard along. Haytham overhears Shaun and Rebecca complaining bitterly about this—it doesn't seem so much like they resent him being in a guard as it does that they have a problem with this man, specifically.

And yes, Cross seems surly and a little tense, but none of them is in a great place right now. Surely he's allowed a bit of a break.

Rebecca calms down a little when Vidic throws up his hands in defeat and proclaims that her system is an unorganized mess, and clearly she'll have to run things because "no sane person could be expected to figure this out." Shaun continues to make snarky comments under his breath until Desmond is thoroughly buried in Altair's memories. Then he turns his attention to looking up historical details Desmond needs to synch better, and he finally goes quiet.

Lucy… Well. Haytham isn't sure what Lucy is supposed to be doing, but mostly she seems to sit in front of her computer while she tries not to cry. Haytham doesn't mean to start watching her, but there is something in the way she starts to break that reminds Haytham of Ratonhnhaké:ton. Well, of course. They've both had the tea. How long before Lucy is like Ratonhnhaké:ton?

Vidic works in a station off by himself, near Lucy but still somehow distant. Haytham knows Vidic is following the trails of various precursor artifacts the templars have identified over the years, but apart from some glowering and cursing, he never gives any indication of how he's doing. Haytham wonders if the man is tracking some of the same pieces he'd traced hundreds of years ago.

Either way, it doesn't seem to be working. Their best bet for finding an apple remains the memories Desmond is reliving in the animus.

"It's really hard," Desmond confides to Haytham once when they've shut the animus down for the day. "I think my DNA is messed up because I'm part wolf. I can't really get inside Altair's head."

"Not a bad thing," Cross grunts. "At least you're not bleeding."

Haytham jumps but Desmond doesn't look surprised that the other man is standing there, listening to their conversation. He probably heard him or smelled him or something. He turns around to answer Cross, and Haytham wanders off. There's no point participating in a conversation where only one of the other people can see him. Besides, Desmond is the only one Cross really gets along with. They can talk about the animus for hours, and eventually someone will overhear them talking about what it's like to kill someone and have their dead body glitch out and start flipping around or something, which is why everyone pretty much leaves the two of them and their weird conversations alone now.

Haytham goes over to Ratonhnhaké:ton instead, who is lying on the floor near Lucy with his head resting on his front paws. The other Haytham, the animal one, is a squirrel at the moment, eating nuts out of Rebecca's hand. But Ratonhnhaké:ton very rarely leaves Lucy alone now. Maybe some part of him remembers what it was like to go through this. To be forced from human to wolf, to lose his mind, piece by piece.

Or maybe that's just wishful thinking, from a man looking for a sign of humanity where there is none. Maybe he just likes this particular spot on the floor. Haytham eases himself onto the floor next to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and smiles just a fraction. The wolf wags his tail like a dog, and moves slightly to rest his head on Haytham's lap.

And time passes.

-/-

Connor doesn't give in when the apple wants him to anymore. He fights, and so every moment of his life is pain. The apple seems to delight in this new game, playing with Connor the way a cat plays with a mouse. There are times when Connor honestly feels like he can do this, like he's fighting the apple back and out of his head. And then the apple will bring the full weight of its power crashing down on him, and Connor will be washed away by it all. For a time everything is bliss and simplicity, just unadulterated worship of the thing in his head that is trying to destroy him. He'll come back to himself hours or days later, his hands around a man's throat or his sword in a woman's chest.

Don't you want to just give in already? The apple will ask.

No, Connor tells it, every time. But every time he says it, he says it with a little less strength. He is not a weak man, and that is not a boast. Connor has always been strong, he has had to be. But the apple is wearing him down, wearing him away. Someday, when it asks him to give in, Connor knows he will say yes. He knows the day is coming when he will beg the apple to just end him. To take away the suffering, and make life nothing but endless years of joyful service to the apple.

All he can do now is keep saying no as long as he can. Every _no_ he gives it is a victory in the war between them, but he has to win every time. The apple only has to win _once_.

He wishes he had someone to talk to. Someone to tell him to hold in there and be strong. Connor misses Ratonhnhaké:ton. Desmond. Even his father. And the other Haytham, of course, the one that had been decent. In the early days, before Connor knew the truth of the apple, when it had just been the five of them… there had still been hope then.

Connor misses hope, he _aches_ for hope. But the apple has filled up the places in his head where hope should be, and there is no room left there for things that are good.

The days become a blur. Even when Connor is aware of himself, when he knows what he is being forced to do is wrong, he can scarcely pay attention or keep track of going on. Sometimes the apple will drive a pain like a spike through his head, prodding him into paying attention. Usually this is because it is about to torture someone to death, and it wants Connor to watch.

Today, it's because he has something new to show him.

Connor finds himself in one of the underground cells, looking at a solidly built man with altogether too much hair.

This is Desmond's father, the apple tells him. You are going to kill him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Note: This is replacing the previous chapter 17, because there were several parts of it I didn't like, and I couldn't figure out how to keep going from there.**

 **-/-**

Connor stares at the stranger—at Desmond's father. And he stares back. Inside Connor's head, the apple is… it's sort of hard to describe, but Connor thinks it's probably laughing. Connor isn't laughing, Connor is horrified to suddenly find himself facing the father of a friend, being told that he's going to kill him. He does not want to kill Desmond's father.

But you will, the apple says, through its horrible laughter—the voice in Connor's head is smug. _You_ will kill him, of your own free will.

Connor has killed many people. Long ago, before the apple turned his life upside down, he killed because he was an Assassin, and there were certain obligations that came with that. And then he had killed under the guidance of the apple, because he—he would have done _anything_ under the apple's control. But this is different. For the moment, at least, Connor is in full control of his own body. And this is a man he has no _reason_ to kill.

The apple informs him, still with that damnable smugness, that he is going to kill this man anyway.

"No," Connor mumbles, shaking his head (fear clutches at his chest, desperation claws right through him). "No, no, _no—"_

Desmond's father moves suddenly, reaching forward to grasp Connor's by the arm. His grip is strong, and surprisingly reassuring. "None of that, now," he says. "Things aren't as bad yet as they could be."

"Yes they are, you don't _know_."

"I know enough," he says. "I've been here many years now, and I've seen more men than I care to count pass through these cells. Whatever you've done to offend the king, you'll just have to take my word for it that there's no point to panicking. It's not going to do you any good at all."

Connor stares at him in silence for a moment—it doesn't seem fair, somehow. Here is this man, a prisoner here because of _Connor_ , because of the things _Connor_ had done under the control of the apple, and he's trying to offer comfort. He thinks they're both the same, both prisoners, when in reality…

It strikes Connor suddenly that he is a prisoner. It's just that… his prison is his own body, his own mind, and—and this tiny, filthy cell is the most freedom he has seen in centuries. Maybe the most freedom he will ever see again. The whole thing is just… it's so unbelievably, crushingly _sad_.

"My name's William Miles," Desmond's father says, and Connor nods.

"I'm Connor," he says.

"Just Connor?"

He shrugs with one shoulder. It doesn't seem to matter much. Who he is, what he wants. It doesn't matter. Suddenly exhausted, Connor sinks to the ground and huddles against the grimy wall. After a moment, William sits as well, leaning against the wall on the other side of the cell. "Why are you here?" he asks, because it seems less dangerous than asking _why does the apple want me to kill you_? Connor doesn't want to go down that path, he doesn't want to think too hard about the horrible thing he's being asked to do, and all the horrible things he's already done.

"Well," William sighs. " _There's_ a question I wish I knew the answer to. I've been fighting the King and his forces my whole life. Then he captured me, and I thought I was about to die. But he locked me down here instead, and I have no idea why."

"How long have you been here?" Connor asks.

"I don't know," William says, with more sarcasm than Connor thinks the situation really warrants. "I don't exactly have a clock down here."

Connor just stares at him, and in the face of that glare, William sighs and slumps back against the wall a little.

"It's been a while," he admits. "A very long while." Then, seemingly with a great effort, he forces some energy into his hollow voice. "And what about you?" he asks. "How long have you been a prisoner?"

 _Centuries_.

"A while," Connor hedges. "I don't know how long, exactly."

William nods. "Surprisingly easy to lose track," he says. "Isn't it?

Especially when your mind isn't your own.

"I'm supposed to kill you," Connor says, without quite knowing why. William stiffens, just a little, but he doesn't otherwise react. "That's why they brought me down here, but I don't really know why and I don't _want_ to—"

But you will, the apple points out in his head. Because I will give you what you want more than anything else in the world, if you only agree to kill him.

Connor doesn't even know what he wants more than anything else in the world—not until the apple starts laughing. Not cruelly, but almost like a fond parent might laugh at a ridiculous child.

I will give you your freedom, the Apple announces. I will remove myself from your mind, along with all memories of everything you've experienced in this world. You will return to your own life, just at the moment you left. It will be like nothing ever happened.

There are no words for how badly Connor wants that. Going home—going back to his _life_. Or—or forget about going home, just to forget all of this would be such a relief. It's tempting. For just a second, Connor genuinely considers doing what the apple wants. Killing a man he's only just met, just to get _away_.

Then he pulls himself back from the edge. He's not going to kill—he's not. He's just not.

Not today, the apple says, with a terribly smug tone. But someday.

"Why?" Connor demands, and he can feel himself breaking, hear the pain and the terror soaking through the single word. Across from him, William jerks in surprise. "Why are you _doing_ this?"

And suddenly there is pressure on his head, a terrible, choking pressure that feels like pure, concentrated rage. Because you are _fighting_ me, the apple hisses. Because you are no longer _useful_ , and I am ready to throw you away. Either you die here, in this cell, and I pass to a new host, or I have the pleasure of watching you throw away everything you _are_ to save your skin.

Connor doesn't answer this. His breathing is already ragged and uneven, but now he almost stops completely. There's no way out of this. Even if he does what the apple wants, even if it follows through on its promise to take away the memories of what's happened in this world, that taint is never going away, and right now, Connor can't stand the thought of that. He can't do what the apple wants, but he can't think of anything else to try. There's no way out of this.

So… this is where he is going to die.

-/-

It takes Desmond five days of almost nonstop animus use to get through the relevant parts of Altair's memories—Haytham is only vaguely aware of the progress he's making, but he knows right away when Desmond is done. The younger man has been lying still as a statue on the animus for thirteen hours straight when all of a sudden he sits up, tense and obviously angry. He growls out a curse in what might be Arabic, then storms away. He stops in front of the window, where he grips the ledge so tightly it makes his arms shake. Haytham can still hear him cursing, at length and with great creativity, under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Shaun asks. He's on the other end of the room, buried in a pile of books, but he looks up when Desmond storms away.

"No good," Rebecca explains. "The Apple that Altair had ended up in Masyaf."

"Which fell in an earthquake hundreds of years ago," Shaun finishes for her. "Right. Great. Perfect."

"It was all a complete waste of time," Desmond says, without turning back to look at any of them. "All that work, and no apple. Nothing we can use against Connor, or the apple, or whatever the fuck…"

He trails off, anger and frustration draining out of his voice. His shoulders slump, and Haytham thinks for a moment that he looks older than he should.

"So we try again," Vidic says impatiently, and with very little sympathy. "You have more ancestors that have interacted with pieces of Eden."

"And what if that turns out to be useless as well?" Desmond demands.

Vidic opens his mouth to say something—Haytham just assumes, on principal, that it's going to be unhelpful at the very least, and probably both rude and insulting as well. Luckily for everyone, Lucy puts a hand on his arm then and manages to stop him before he can get a word out.

"I'll go talk to Desmond," she says, in an undertone. Desmond's ears twitch back toward them, so Haytham assumes that even though she's whispering, he can still hear every word she's saying. But he doesn't move or protest, and when Lucy heads toward him, he actually looks a little calmer. And Haytham doesn't have that same super-wolf hearing, so he has no idea what the two of them say to one another. It looks private, anyway. None of his business.

He drifts sideways, around the edge of the room, to where a Ratonhnhaké:ton the wolf is curled on a warm patch of floor near a clattering, clanking radiator. The other Haytham, the cursed one, is curled up nearby—he's a squirrel for the moment. He usually is. Occasionally, when the situation calls for it, he'll make the change to eagle. Haytham has never seen him use that… other shape. The monster. And Haytham had been there, in his other self's head, the last time he had to take that shape. It's been centuries since then, and the nightmares still haven't stopped completely. He sits down cross legged on the floor nearby, and tries to calm himself. It's really no use, though. Here they are, a tiny scion of Templars and Assassins, desperately trying to save the world before they're hunted down and killed.

Ratonhnhaké:ton lifts his head a little and looks at Haytham, and Haytham smiles, just a little, as he stretches a hand out to rub Ratonhnhaké:ton behind the ears. "Do you like it here?" he asks. There's no one in the room that can hear him but these two and Desmond, but Haytham keeps his voice low anyway, out of deference to the serious, deflated mood in the room. "I suppose there's not much to like, is there? Hasn't been much to like in a very long time."

He sighs as Ratonhnhaké:ton shifts ever so slightly closer, and looks up at him with as much worry as a wolf can show.

"Are you guys all friends, now?"

Haytham looks up at Desmond, who has apparently finished with Lucy. He still looks rather more hopeless than Haytham would have liked to see, but there's a sort of hard determination in the set of his shoulders.

"That's what happens when you've been through what we've been through," Haytham says. "I don't… belong, on this world. There's no one else that can even see me. I need them for that. And I think—it's hard to tell, but it's always seemed that they can be a little more like themselves when we're together. A little less entirely animal. It's a strange situation, but it does breed an odd kind of friendship."

"I suppose it would have to," Desmond says. There's a little pause before he adds, "I guess that's good."

"It is," Haytham confirms. But he doesn't much want to talk about himself, so he changes the subject as quickly as he can. "And what of you?" he asks. "Are you going back in the animus?"

"Yea," Desmond says. "Lucy's pointed out that there's not much choice. We don't have any other way of tracking down an apple."

Haytham nods. "I'm sorry you have to go through all this," he says. "It's not fair on you."

Desmond had already been frowning, but now the frown pushes down deeper, into an expression that is almost a scowl. "Nothing about this world is fair on anyone," he says.

"No it isn't," Haytham agrees.

"Was your world better than this?" he asks.

"The place I came from was certainly different," Haytham says, after considering the question. "It had its elements of unfairness, but nothing like Washington."

"Like Connor," Desmond reminds him. "Connor's King. Washington's nothing but a pawn."

"Then so is Connor," Haytham says. "I don't… I will not believe that the things that have happened in this country have happened because of Connor. He is simply not that kind of person. I may not have liked him much, when we were in our own world, living our own lives, but I… knew him. And I knew he would not have done this."

"Do you think it's too late to save him?" Desmond asks.

"He's been under the apple's control for a very long time," Haytham says. "But I hope… maybe it's not too late. Stranger things have happened in this world, certainly."

"And would you want that?" Desmond asks. "You always seemed to hate him so much, when I was with you in the animus."

"I did," Haytham assures Desmond. "But things change. And I have changed—I have been on my own in this world for a very long time. That's a lot of time to think, and a lot of time to… well, I've been with these two for nearly all of that time." Haytham's not sure he would ever admit it out loud, but there's something about the way Ratonhnhaké:ton and his other self stick so closely together. Watching them together makes something uncomfortable start burning inside him. It had taken him an uncomfortably long time to realize that it's loneliness. Because, yes. Even before everything in his life went wrong, before he knew it was possible for people to turn into animals, before he'd traveled to another world, even when his life was more or less _normal_ , back then he'd been alone. And he hadn't minded.

But it's very different to be in a world where no one human can even see him (no one until Desmond, anyway). And Haytham… misses Connor. Part of it is just a longing for someone—anyone—from his own world. But that not—he just…

They have survived centuries in a world that is not their own. If they somehow make it through all this, Haytham would very much like to apologize.

"Haytham?" Desmond says. "You okay?"

He shakes himself out of his bleak thoughts, and back into the conversation. "Desmond," he says.

"Yea?"

"What do you intend to do with this apple, if you find it?"

"Uh—" He makes a face, half confusion, half plain unhappiness. "Stop Connor, somehow. Make sure there's no King after him."

"But you don't know exactly how another apple would be able to do all that," Haytham says. "Correct?"

"I guess so," Desmond says. "I'm kind of hoping it'll make more sense if—when we actually get the thing."

"If possible," Haytham says. "When you get the apple, and when you face Connor… do try not to kill him."

Desmond blinks. His face is all confusion now, but he nods anyway. "Sure," he says. "I'll do whatever I can."

"That's all I ask," Haytham says, and then Desmond is called back to the animus by Rebecca, and that's all the time they have for conversation.


	18. Chapter 18

**Hey, long time no see... (I suck, haha). I doubt anyone's still interested in reading this after the excessive hiatus I took, but on the off chance you are, you should know that Chapter 17 has been completely rewritten, and you might want to head back there and check it out if you're planning to keep reading. Sorry for the inconvenience, and thanks for reading!**

-/-

Connor dreams of home nearly every night. And it's amazing that those dreams should be as bright and vivid as they are, because it's been… _so_ long, since he was last there. But the memories are strong, and his dreams are clear, and every morning, when Connor wakes to the bare stone walls of the cell he shares with William Miles, it's like those dreams are melting away.

His only way home lies through the killing of another man, and Connor isn't sure he can do that.

(And yet there are times… in his darkest, most desperate moments, when Connor catches himself half considering it. The apple is still in his head, still egging him on, and Connor has spent the past two hundred years doing everything the apple tells him to, and he is terribly afraid that it's only a matter of time until he breaks)

"Tell me about yourself," William says one day. Or one night, maybe. It's impossible to gauge the passage of time from in here.

Connor stirs guiltily, edging backwards a little on the filthy floor. He'd been contemplating how he would even go about killing William, if it came to that. There aren't a lot of options in the cell, and William is part bear. He offers a wan smile, and tries not to look like the piece of utter scum that he's starting to believe that he is. "What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Anything," William says. He gives a long, heartfelt sigh. "Something to distract from this place for a little while."

"Not much to say," Connor says.

"There must be something about yourself that you're willing to share," William says.

Connor considers this for a moment. "I'm very unlucky," he says after a moment, and William actually laughs in response. There's no humor in it, but it's technically a laugh.

"You and me both," he says. "We wouldn't be in here otherwise."

"What about you?" Connor asks, hoping William will allow the change of subject. "What did you leave behind in the real world?"

"Oh," William says, turning as evasive as Connor had been a minute ago. "Work. Some family."

"Family," Connor echoes. Suddenly he's itching to ask about Desmond, but he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like he knows too much.

Luckily, William brings the conversation that way on his own.

"It's funny," William says (but his voice is utterly devoid of humor). "I hadn't thought of him in years, but now that I'm here I can't stop thinking about my son."

That would be Desmond, the apple reminds Connor, unnecessarily. He wanted to kill you.

"He wanted to kill _you_ ," Connor hisses under his breath.

"What?" William asks.

Connor shakes his head.

"You're the same age as him," William says. "Assuming he's alive. He's probably dead. I haven't seen him since he was sixteen, and he's not…" William is silent for a long time, but Connor doesn't push. They have nothing but time, locked away down here. Eventually, William goes on. "He's not a survivor. Too soft for this world."

And yet he's still alive. He's out there, somewhere, maybe trying to think of a way to fix all this. He knows everything that's happened, knows about the apple, about Connor. After him, there's no one left that knows the truth of everything that's happened. He's stronger than his father thinks, and Connor wants to tell William that. Only if he did, he'd have to explain how he knows Desmond, how he knows Desmond is William's son, all kinds of awful things he doesn't much want to talk about.

"You never know," he says instead. "He might be alright."

"And maybe one day the King will die," William says bleakly. "I don't hold out much hope for miracles anymore."

A deep, gloomy darkness settles between the two of them, heavy enough to weigh them down.

Are you ready to kill him yet? The apple asks. Are you ready to go home?

Home. _Home_. To go home, and forget everything. To have all these horrors wiped away. Connor has not cried since he was a child watching his mother die, but he very nearly cries now from the sheer force of wanting to go home again.

But he shakes his head no. Not yet. Not today. He can hold off a little bit longer.

-/-

Desmond is spending eighteen hours a day in the animus now, tearing through Ezio Auditore's life at a speed that leaves him spinning and shaking and confused. But they have to find an apple. They have to.

In his sparse time out of the animus, Desmond finds himself taking an odd kind of comfort from the parts of himself that are wolf. He'll curl up in bed, fighting off nightmares and trying to sleep, and he'll close his eyes and focus on everything he can smell. In the animus, when he's Ezio, Desmond can see in more colors than he knows how to name, but he can barely smell anything at all. It helps him to feel like himself again to just lie in bed and focus on everything he can smell, one at a time.

Food—not meat, there's never enough meat these days, but it must be Cross's turn to cook because he's _shockingly_ good with cooking, and the smell is making Desmond hungry. Then the people, all of them. Cross, Vidic, Rebecca, Shaun. Haytham, as strong as anyone else, despite being only half there. A pair of eagles, roosting in the wooden beams near the ceiling—Ratonhnhaké:ton and the other Haytham. The very faint smell of… mouse? One of the eagles must have been hunting, but the smell is faint so they must have eaten a while ago.

And then there's Lucy. There's so much more wolf than human in her scent these days—it worries Desmond, in a distant, exhausted way. For a while, he just concentrates on breathing, in and out, in and out, tracking Lucy's smell as she moves around the room. When she passes close to him, Desmond slides his eyes open and says, "Are you okay, Lucy?"

She doesn't look at him. Just fidgets with something in her hands, a quick and nervous gesture. Her shoulders are bowed, and she looks like she's thinking hard. "Are you worried about me?" she asks. Her voice is hoarse, and Desmond thinks that either she hasn't been talking much lately, or she's been crying.

"Yea," Desmond says. "You didn't ask for the tea. You didn't want to be…" Like him. "Less than human."

"I can tell," Lucy says faintly. "You're worried, and I can _tell_ , it's just something about the way you smell right now—I shouldn't be able to smell that. I shouldn't know what it _means_."

"Lucy—"

"It's a full moon tonight," Lucy says.

"I know," Desmond answers.

"There's a part of me that just wants to go outside and howl at the moon and that's _not_ who I want to be it's just _not_ but the wolf inside me is just taking over and I don't know how to stop it."

"You'll get used to it," Desmond offers, without much conviction.

"I drank the tea," Lucy says. "I won't get used to it. Sooner or later, it's going to drive me crazy."

Desmond has nothing reassuring to say. It's true. That's what happens—they've all heard the stories of the men that the King had forced to drink the tea. Desmond had witnessed it himself, reliving Ratonhnhaké:ton's memories. Even in the brief time he'd had between drinking the tea and being forced permanently into animal form, Ratonhnhaké:ton had seemed like he was starting to slip.

"I'm going to miss you," Desmond says quietly.

"When I'm… when whatever's going to happen to me actually happens… when there's no human left in me…"

"Lucy?"

"Will you look after me?" Lucy whispers.

Desmond takes a moment or two to blink back tears. This isn't fair. Lucy is one of the good ones, and she doesn't deserve to lose herself like this.

Before he gets his voice under control, the two of them are interrupted by a low whining sound. They both look over, and Desmond realizes Ratonhnhaké:ton has left his eagle's perch. He's standing in front of them, a wolf again, and although Desmond doubts he really knows what's going on he seems sad and sorry. He pushes his face into Lucy's hand, and licks at her fingers.

"You're part of the pack," Desmond says. "I know it's not what you want, but I've been a lone wolf for a long time now. It's not that much fun, and I'm just… look, _everything_ that's happened lately sucks, but I'm not alone anymore. And I'm not giving that up. I'm not giving any of you up. You're never going to be alone, Lucy."

-/-

Ratonhnhaké:ton has never really liked humans. They're too big, too loud, too dangerous. Ratonhnhaké:ton had been shot by a hunter once, and it hadn't killed him because nothing ever does but the bullet had torn into him, buried itself in his leg, and stayed there for what felt like an eternity. Ratonhnhaké:ton had spent a full winter in a little den, wasting away to skin and bone, suffering. It didn't matter what form he took, the pain never went away. Finally, when it was nearly spring, Father and other-Father had found him, and other-Father had taken the pain away. He'd dug the bullet out and bandaged the wound and brought Ratonhnhaké:ton food.

Other-Father is human but Ratonhnhaké:ton trusts him, because of that day and because of a hundred other days like it. But he's never trusted any other human like he trusts other-Father. So this… all this, living in a human building, surrounded by humans, depending on humans for food and water and _everything_ , it's wrong. Wrong, wrong, all wrong.

But Desmond doesn't count. He's never really been human, he's always been a wolf in human shape. And he is a part of Ratonhnhaké:ton's pack, he is _Ratonhnhaké:ton's_ , he is the son of the son of the pup Ratonhnhaké:ton had had so long ago, the one that had turned human, the one…

The one Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't been able to take care of.

He isn't going to let Desmond down. There's enough wolf in him that Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks… maybe he'll know what to do this time.

So that's why he stays. For other-Father, and for Desmond, and also sort of for Lucy. Lucy, who is human but more wolf every day and watching her change wakes something up inside him. Memories. Long gone, or buried, or forgotten, but suddenly stirring deep inside his head. That had happened to him once. Ratonhnhaké:ton had been human. And then he had not been.

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't remember what it was like to be human. He doesn't remember what it was like to change. But Lucy smells of fear and worry and misery, all the time, and the more wolf she gets, the more scared she gets as well. So Ratonhnhaké:ton isn't going to abandon her, either.

His life has been nothing but cold and pain and fear for a very long time now. All the humans are afraid, but Ratonhnhaké:ton has no head for human concerns. He has a pack now, strange and sad and broken but _his_. Father and other-Father and Desmond and Lucy. Ratonhnhaké:ton has a purpose again.

Lucy needs him the most right now, so Ratonhnhaké:ton starts to shadow her. Everywhere she goes, everything she does, he tries to be right there for her. He can't tell if it's helping, because people are strange and complicated and they have so many _feelings_.

And then one day, instead of half falling off the animus thing late-late at night, Desmond hops off in the middle of the afternoon and says, "I'm done. I know where it is."

And everyone—Desmond, Lucy, other-Father—they're all so _happy_ when they hear that. Ratonhnhaké:ton feels like he can stop worrying for a little while. It sounds like all the bad things are going to go away now.

-/-

They stay up late that night, and for once it's because they're celebrating instead of working. They know where to find another apple now, and from everything the others have said, it shouldn't even be difficult to get to.

"It's in Rome," Desmond tells Haytham (again—he must have gone over this half a dozen times already). "Rome! In _Italy_."

"So I've heard," Haytham says.

"I'm going to help get it back," Desmond says.

" _No,"_ Vidic says at once. He's been hovering at the edge of the crowd, awkwardly hovering over the others, as always, but now he interrupts. "You're not."

"You had me kidnapped," Desmond says, and although his voice is casual, his posture is tense. "You don't get a say."

"We only get one chance at this," Vidic says. "Bringing you out of the country will ruin everything."

"I know exactly where it is," Desmond says. "I know how Ezio hid the apple—and he's my ancestor, what if we need his DNA or something?"

"You're part wolf," Vidic says flatly. "The second anyone sees your ears, you're a dead man."

"I'm _going,"_ Desmond insists.

By now, Haytham realizes, the others have gone silent and they're all staring at Desmond and Vidic, waiting to see how the conflict will play out.

"I can take care of myself," Desmond says. "I know what I'm doing, where I'm going, I can _help_. And I think you need me."

"What do you think about airport security?" Vidic asks. "Washington—the King, whoever the King really _is_ , he has troops that have taken the tea. They'll be able to tell you're not human as soon as you get close enough for them to smell you."

"No," Shaun says abruptly. "He's right. He's done as much as any of us to figure this all out. More. Look, I got into the country from the UK without the King's men knowing about it. I think I can figure out a way to get all of us out."

Silence. Utter silence for a moment. Then Vidic nods.

"How quickly can you get us out?" Cross asks from behind Vidic.

"End of the week," Shaun says.

"Then that's when we'll leave," Desmond says. He looks almost numb from excitement. "I'm going to get to see the world."


	19. Chapter 19

They get to the apple of Eden easily enough, but Desmond hesitates before actually touching it. The thing sends a cold, sick feeling through him, and he can't stop worrying about whether it's going to do to him what it did to Washington and Connor. If he touches it, will it take him the way it took them?

"Come on, Desmond!" Cross calls impatiently. He has to shout to be heard, because he's standing a relatively safe distance away. "We didn't come all the way here just to look at the damn thing, did we?"

"What if this one's evil too?" Desmond shouts back.

"What?"

"I said what if it's evil too!"

"Then we're fucked!" Cross calls. "But we're fucked without it anyway, so who cares?"

This is a fair point. Desmond takes a deep breath, and reaches for the apple. His hand shakes when he closes it around the piece of Eden, but nothing happens. Desmond lets out his breath in a long, slow sigh of relief, and heads back toward Cross. Maybe he shouldn't have worried in the first place, it's not like anything bad had happened to Ezio when _he_ used it. But Desmond doesn't understand how the apples work, and he's having a hard time trusting anything these days.

"Great," Cross says. "Fantastic. Let's go. The others are waiting for us on the surface."

"Do you want to radio ahead to them?" Desmond asks.

"Too far underground," Cross says, and for a little while they just move onward in silence. Then, Cross says, "What are you going to do with that, now you have it?"

"Uh…" Desmond looks down at the apple. "I don't know. I didn't really expect it to be this easy to get our hands on one. I haven't really been thinking ahead."

"You should start," Cross suggests.

"Why me?" Desmond complains. "I'm new to all this, remember? A month ago, I was a bartender in New York."

Cross shrugs. "Doesn't matter what you were last month," he says. "This month, you're taking down the King."

"But why _me_?" Desmond says, and he knows at once that he's whining too much. But frankly, if any situation deserved it, he'd assume this would be it.

"Because you had the bad luck to be in the wrong place in the wrong time," Cross says. "Sometimes that's all there is to it."

"That sucks," Desmond says.

"Better you than me," Cross says, in a voice that is altogether too cheerful, and then they're back at street level. They put their conversation on hold for the moment to call the others and let them know they're ready for pickup, and then when that's done, Desmond starts casting around for a change of subject.

"Have you ever been out of the US?" he asks after a while.

"Russia," Cross says.

"Is it anything like this?" Desmond asks, gesturing around at the Italian streets surrounding them.

Cross shrugs. "Some parts," he says. "Not everything. But it's not as backwards as America, anyway."

"That's what happens when you have a King from the seventeen hundreds," Desmond grumbles. "Progress pretty much stops."

They reach a main street, and Desmond hears a screech from overhead—looks up as an eagle (Ratonhnhaké:ton? Haytham?) swoops by. He's holding something small and furry in his talons, and lets it go just as he passes Desmond. Just in time, Desmond leans forward and catches—ah. A squirrel. So this is Haytham, and the eagle is Ratonhnhaké:ton. Desmond smiles at the rodent and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Do you think this apple can undo what that apple did to them?" Desmond asks Cross, gesturing to both squirrel and eagle.

"Maybe," Cross says. "Might be a good trial run, I suppose. See what it can do."

"So should I try?"

"Maybe not out in the open like this," Cross says, after a brief hesitation. But he looks thoroughly interested in the idea of testing the apple out, and he helps Desmond find an out of the way corner where no one is likely to see them. It's behind a pile of equipment in the middle of a construction site, which… isn't the most private place imaginable, but they're both too impatient to look for anything better.

When they're out of sight, Desmond gently lifts Haytham out of his pocket to rest him on a waist high crate, and then calls for Ratonhnhaké:ton as well. When they're both on the crate, eyeing Desmond warily, he takes out the apple. Instantly, both his ancestors are in a panic—flapping wings and a twitching tail and the smell of fear thick and sudden in the air. Desmond catches himself looking around for Haytham, and of course he's there, right there, and between the two of them they manage to calm the two animals.

Slowly, Desmond brings out the apple again, and waits for Ratonhnhaké:ton and the animal Haytham to slowly grow used to it. "This isn't the same as the thing that hurt you," he says. "It's going to help. Not hurt."

"Are you sure?" Haytham asks, and Desmond… can't entirely blame him for the lack of trust in his voice. "Why wouldn't this one be as bad as the other?"

"Because it's like Cross said," Desmond answers. "We're fucked if they're both evil."

"It's a tool," Desmond says. "Like a knife. Isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"You're going to talk me all the way out of it," Desmond warns.

"No," Haytham says, and he gives a little half laugh. "I don't know you all that well, but I don't think you're going to let anyone talk you out of anything you know you need to do."

Well—maybe. Maybe not. But this is a big thing, and Desmond doesn't see anyone else lining up to undo what the King has done.

He holds the apple in both hands, closes his eyes, and hopes for the best.

-/-

There's something new happening in Ratonhnhaké:ton's brain. No, not new—he can remember feeling like this before. Before he was an animal, when he was still himself and had his own mind. His thoughts are speeding up, growing more complicated and deeper.

Memories are coming back, and not just memories. Ratonhnhaké:ton is coming back to himself.

He hits the ground suddenly, and hard cement slams into his back. It's cold, and Ratonhnhaké:ton curls into a defensive, shivering ball. He breathes in short, shallow gasps, and for a long, confusing second he doesn't even realize that he's—he's human again. With an effort, he pries his eyes open, and heaves himself backwards, groping until he finds a solid feeling wall to prop himself up against. Desmond is standing in front of him, looking flat out terrified and holding an apple (Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach churns).

"What happened?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. Then he asks again, because the first time his voice had been too hoarse for anything he said to actually be audible. He's cold and naked and terrified. "Desmond, what—"

"It's okay," Desmond says quickly. He stows the apple in his bag, and crouches on the ground in front of Ratonhnhaké:ton. "I mean… I think it's okay? How are you? Do you feel okay? Do you remember anything?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton groans and presses a hand to his forehead. His head is absolutely killing him. "Yes," he says. "I remember… a lot. More than I want to."

"Sorry," Desmond says.

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "You weren't the one that…you didn't take my humanity away from me. You gave it back."

Desmond half laughs and turns red in the exact same second.

Then someone coughs and splutters next to them, like a man coming up for air after too long underwater. Ratonhnhaké:ton turns, in a too-slow motion. He's been animal for so long, it feels unnatural to have traded all those forms for human so suddenly. It's going to take a while to get used to that again. But when he finally manages to refocus, he sees his father lying spread out on the ground next to the two of them. The other Haytham is standing nearby, looking…suitably uncomfortable, and maybe a little relieved.

"You're back," he says.

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. That's what it feels like. Like he's come back from somewhere far away. Only that somewhere was inside his own head, and coming home is wonderful but it _hurts_.

"We're back," he agrees.

"And you're not going to… to do that again," Haytham says. "You're not going to turn animal."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton's father says.

"Father! Are you alright?"

"No."

Ratonhnhaké:ton meets his father's eyes, and an understanding passes between them. It's been this way for so long. They didn't have words, so when they spoke it was in other ways. Little gestures, a glance, pieces of unspoken conversation, stretching out across the centuries. Connections to one another, tenuous as a spider's web, binding them together. The two of them.

The three of them.

Ratonhnhaké:ton helps his father sit up, and after a moment Haytham crouches down, in front of them.

"We're okay," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "We will be."

"And we're no longer freaks," his father says, and although he's looking at Ratonhnhaké:ton the words are obviously meant for Haytham. They are _obviously_ meant to provoke.

"I did say that once," Haytham admits, after a lengthy pause. "I should not have."

Then, after an even longer time, Ratonhnhaké:ton's father sighs. "No," he says. "But I thought it myself, once upon a time."

It's not quite an apology, but Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks it will be enough. For the moment. "Are we going to save Connor?" he asks.

"It's not just up to us," Haytham says. "It's partly a question of what the others are willing to do, and partly a question of what we _can_ do."

"But you do want him back," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Don't you? He's your son."

"Yes," Haytham admits, after a while. "Yes, I think I do."

"So…" They all look up as Cross interrupts suddenly. "Am I the only one that can't see the invisible person here, or…?"

"Yea," Desmond says. "Yea, you're pretty much the only one."

"At least until anyone else shows up," Haytham adds, rather pointlessly. Cross still can't hear him. "And then I'm invisible again."

Desmond shakes his head, and when Ratonhnhaké:ton looks up, he sees his descendant's face is set into a stony expression. "Only for now," he says. "We'll figure something out, I promise, okay? I'm sick and tired of things being… all fucked up. You're going to get a happy ending. We all are."

-/-

There's no good way out of the hole Connor has fallen into. He's going to kill William Miles, and then he is going to go home. Or he is going to stay here in this cold cell until he dies of starvation, and the apple moves onto someone else. William himself, maybe. But none of this ends well for Connor. None of it. He is a dead man walking. Maybe literally, and maybe only in spirit. But everything worth saving in him is gone already.

And after everything he's done with the apple in his head, Connor knows he deserves it.

"What are you thinking about, over there?" William asks.

"Dying," Connor tells him. "You?"

"Living," William answers.

"You think there's any chance of that?" Connor asks. "You think we're going to have any kind of life after this? Really?"

"Of course not," William says dismissively. "But that's not what I meant. I'm thinking about the life I used to have."

"Your family?" Connor asks. William talks about his wife and son almost every day.

But not today. Today he just sighs, and hunches down into himself. He looks particularly bearlike in that position. Connor watches him for a moment. Thinks of his other self actually turning into a bear. At the time, he'd hated watching Ratonhnhaké:ton change, turn into animal after animal. Now he wishes their positions had been reversed. The simplicity of Ratonhnhaké:ton's life seems so much better than the impossible choice looming over his own.

"When I came here," Connor says, softly, after an interminable amount of time. "They said I'd have to kill you. And if I did, I'd go free."

"Do you believe that?" William says, after a long pause of his own. There is no urgency to this conversation, just as there is no urgency to anything either of them says to the other. Time doesn't mean much here.

"No," Connor says.

But you would be free, the apple promises him. You would be home.

"No kind of freedom comes with the price I would have to pay," Connor says. "So I won't pay it."

You'll die, the apple says.

And he knows he will.

-/-

Haytham has been _animal_ for a long time, and it's so strange and (somehow, at the same time) wonderful to be back in his own body. The journey from Italy back to America is hardly enough time to get readjusted to himself, to hands and fingers, to two legs and two arms. He stumbles more than he should, but every time he does he looks at Ratonhnhaké:ton (who is as off balance as he is, but _smiling_ , just all the time, so obviously excited to be himself again) and keeps going.

They eventually find their way back to their original safehouse—it looks so much smaller, now that Haytham is human. Then again, everything looks enormous when you spend most of your time as a squirrel.

"This place is definitely getting too cramped," Shaun complains when they're all crowded into the main room of the safehouse.

"Well hopefully we'll be able to go our separate ways soon," Vidic says. "Hopefully the King will die, and we'll never have to deal with one another again."

Haytham watches as everyone, as if by some unspoken signal, turns to look at Desmond. His ears twitch in sudden nerves, and his whole face turns pink. "I don't exactly have a plan," he says. "I just figure the apple is going to be a pretty good weapon to have on our side when we go after the King."

"You don't have a plan," Vidic repeats, flatly.

"I've been to the King's castle once already," Desmond says. "And I don't really want to go back. Apple or no, they could probably kill me before I was close enough to do anything."

"So draw him out," Haytham says.

They all turn to look at him now, and Desmond says "What?"

"I think it's a fairly safe assumption to make that the apples might be able to sense one another. It seems like they can do just about everything else, and now that you have one, you're a threat."

"Uh… I guess so," Desmond says. He doesn't look particularly threatening at this particular moment, even Haytham has to admit.

"It's a good thing," Haytham says. "We want him to know you're here."

"Right," Desmond says. "Sure. Only—he's going to try and kill me as soon as he knows I have the apple, right?"

"Sure," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, speaking up suddenly. "He's going to try. But you're going to kill him first."

It's not a question, not the way Ratonhnhaké:ton says it. The whole thing just sounds like a declaration of fact. Haytham shoots his son a grateful look, and a little nod.

"I guess I have to," Desmond says, but he doesn't look happy about it. "I just… I kind of wanted to save Connor, too."


	20. Chapter 20

That's it, the apple says abruptly.

There's something in the way it says the words that sends chills up Connor's spine. "What do you mean?" he asks aloud.

You could have killed him and gone home, the apple says. You didn't. Your chance is gone.

And just like that, the apple floods through his mind again, and it's—it's horrible, _horrible_ , because Connor can feel himself crumble and give way, he's opening himself up to the apple because now he knows he's okay, he knows the apple is going to take care of him, that's what the apple has always done (hasn't it? He's still here, isn't he?)

"Connor?" William says. "Are you alright? You look… odd."

But he doesn't matter, Connor can see that now. William Miles had never mattered, except as a test for _him._ To see if he would do without as much direct control. (And he's failed, hasn't he? He hadn't done what the apple wanted. Sinking slowly into a cloud of apple fueled peace, all Connor can do is beg the apple to forgive him, for failing to do as it asked.

He kicks William aside so hard it sends the other man rocketing back, into a wall. Calls for a guard, and waits there until the man does as he's told, and lets him out.

"Traitor," William hisses.

This amuses the apple, and it twists Connor's face up into the kind of smile that normal people just don't make. Too big. Too many teeth. "You can't be a traitor if you're only loyal to yourself," it says. "Maybe you would understand that, if you weren't so damnably human."

And then it goes—they go—because there's another apple nearby. Something that needs to be taken care of, immediately, because there is exactly _one_ thing in the world that might be a danger to the apple, and this is it. For the first time in two centuries, Connor feels genuine fear coming from the apple.

-/-

Desmond sits cross legged on his bed, studying the apple where it sits on his lap. The others are purposefully keeping busy in other areas of their safehouse, well away from the apple and it's unpredictable effects.

"So why aren't you evil?" Desmond murmurs. He feels a little bit stupid, talking to an inanimate object. But that's not all it is, is it? If this thing is anything at all like the one that's kept Connor enslaved for all these years, it has a mind of its own. "You're letting me help my friends, and I'm grateful, I am. But… I want to know why."

The apple's voice in his head, when it comes, is simultaneously a shock and one of the most natural things he's ever felt.

There are evil humans, aren't there? It asks. And there are good ones?

"I… sure," Desmond says. "Yea."

You're not unique in that, the apple says.

"Okay," Desmond says. "Okay, okay, um…" He turns the apple over and over in his hands, nervous beyond belief. He can't get past the feeling that on some level, he's making a deal with the devil. But what other _choice_ does he have, and anyway, it has helped him so far.

You want your friend back, the apple says.

"And I want to make sure that the apple inside him doesn't do the same to anyone else," Desmond says quickly.

Of course. I will help you do that.

"Why?" Desmond asks. "I just—tell me why. I need to know if I can trust you."

Because the things that are happening are wrong, the apple says.

Desmond sighs. It's not really a great explanation, but they're running out of time. "Alright," he says. "Yea, okay. Let's get started, I guess."

He closes his eyes, and tries to focus on the power inside the apple on counteracting the thing inside Connor. The other apple. The harder Desmond concentrates on it, the more he can sort of feel Connor (or the apple inside him), coming closer…

Desmond is sweating a little. There's a lot of pressure on this moment, and he's not… he's not _good_ enough for this. What is he, after all? Just a terrified, half human mutt, who has lived his entire life in fear of someone finding out what he is. How is he supposed to save anyone at all?

"Hey," a soft voice says, and Desmond's heart starts racing when he recognizes Lucy's scent. She puts her hand on his shoulder. "You okay? You look… I don't know. Upset."

"I can't do this," Desmond says. "I'm not good enough, I _can't_ …"

Lucy hesitates. Then she sits down next to him. Desmond can feel her warmth at his side, even with his eyes tightly shut. "Look," she says. "I can't imagine anyone better to do this, okay?" She hesitates, just a bit, and then leans over and kisses him on the cheek. Desmond's eyes snap open, and he turns sharply to look at Lucy, only an inch or two away.

"Did you mean to do that?" he asks. "I mean… was that on purpose?"

She's smiling at him. And not like she's laughing at him, like she's just… happy. Because of him. "Yes, Desmond," she says. "It was on purpose."

Desmond flushes a bright red. "Oh," he says. "I… thank you, Lucy."

She reaches out, and takes his hand. Desmond closes his eyes, and this time it's a little easier to focus. And when Ratonhnhaké:ton sits down on his other side, and his father and Connor's join them nearby, silent but _present_ , Desmond feels strong enough for anything he has to do. So he pushes past his hesitation, and lets the apple loose.

I need strength, the apple whispers in his head.

"What does that mean?" Desmond whispers back.

The apple flashes an image into his head, an explanation delivered in a moment. But Desmond hesitates, lingering over his decision for a very long time. Then he nods. "Yea," he says. "Okay."

-/-

Altair has an apple of Eden.

He's had it for many years now, and he's spent much of his adult life puzzling his way through the oddities of how it works. He prides himself on thinking that he knows as much about the apple than any other human alive. So he recognizes when the apple is trying to manipulate him, when it is willing to help him, and when it is too much for him to handle, just at the moment.

Right now, the apple is calling to him, and it is calling for help. Altair studies it at a distance, on guard against some sort of trick. Then, after a good long moment spent carefully studying the apple from every conceivable angle, Altair picks it up. Waits a moment, as the apple tells him what it wants.

His eyebrows creep upwards, in an involuntary expression of surprise. Then, without so much as a moment's hesitation, he settles himself at his desk and focuses in on the apple. It flares to life, glowing with a dull, golden light. Altair closes his eyes, and concentrates on what the apple wants from him. Just this once, he has no reservations about helping the apple do what it wants him to do. He takes the power of the apple, and sends it forward, over an ocean, across a continent, through time itself, until it reaches an odd looking young man from the future, who is trying to do some good.

-/-

Ezio has an apple of Eden.

Sometimes it feels like he's spent his whole adult life chasing it, and now that he has it in his hands, all he feels is a bone deep exhaustion. Is this bauble really worth all the trouble it's caused? Can anyone really use this thing to do any kind of good?

The apple suddenly begins to pulse dully in his hand, and Ezio eyes it warily. He's not sure what it wants or why, but…

But…

Somehow, impossibly, it speaks to him. Suddenly Ezio _does_ know what the apple wants with him, and he can't say he's reluctant to give it the help it's asking for. Or… it's not the apple that's asking, really, it's this Desmond, maybe even the same Desmond that Ezio had once heard of, in the precursor passage under the Vatican. Ezio closes his eyes, and lends what strength he can to the apple, and through it, to Desmond.

-/-

Desmond has an apple of Eden.

Which is great, probably, because they need this apple to get inside the Great Temple in New York and stop the sun from burning the Earth to a crisp or something, but honestly Desmond hates having the damn thing around. It whispers to him, sometimes, and there are already enough voices in his head thanks to the animus, he really doesn't need any more.

But this voice is different, because this voice is his. Sort of. Almost. It—well, Desmond has always had a little bit of trouble wrapping his head around the idea of alternate universes, but when he holds the apple now and closes his eyes, the image he has is of _himself_ , only that version of him has ears like a wolf and a lean, hungry look to him. Both Desmonds stare at each other for a long moment, apparently equally surprised by each other.

Then the other Desmond gives a bark of laughter (and it really does sound like a bark, there's something undeniably canine about it) and somehow, through the vision, speaks. "You're human," he says. "That's _crazy_."

"Sorry," Desmond say. " _I'm_ the crazy one?"

"Fair," the other Desmond says. "That's fair."

Silence. Mostly silence, anyway, because Desmond can still hear the apple whispering in his mind, and he's sort of getting an idea of what it wants him to do. He nods. Desmond still has some serious doubts about whether or not he's going to be able to stop the world from ending, but he can at least do this. So he sends his strength into the apple, toward his other self, and silently wishes him the best.

-/-

"Did you know there's a version of me that's completely human?" Desmond asks, without opening his eyes. "It's _weird_."

"I can't picture you with tiny ears," Lucy says.

"Neither can I," Desmond admits. "It's not always great, being part wolf. But it's who I am." He grins. He can still feel them, all those other assassins from the past (and, in the case of that other Desmond, from Connor's world). For the moment at least, their strength is his strength, and he's not going to let that go to waste.

"He's here!" Cross shouts suddenly, and Desmond's eyes snap open just in time to see Cross turn toward him, looking terrified for the first time since Desmond's met him. "The King!"

"He's no King," Haytham says—Connor's father, not Ratonhnhaké:ton's. Cross can't even hear him, and Desmond isn't sure at first who Haytham is talking to. Then he realizes Haytham is more than likely trying to reassure himself. "He is my son. And it's time we ended this."

And then Connor is on them, he's just suddenly _in_ the room, practically oozing with an unnatural, golden glow. Desmond gets slowly to his feet, until he and Connor are facing one another from opposite sides of the room. Desmond with an apple in his hand, Connor with an apple in his head. Everyone else has scattered to the edges of the scene, and Desmond doesn't blame them at all. For good or for bad, this was always going to come down to him and Connor and nobody else.

"Drop it," Connor says. His voice has an odd echo to it, and it seems to vibrate inside Desmond's chest, even standing all the way across the room.

"No," Desmond says. "Shut up, just—I'm sick of you using my friend to do all these terrible things. You think you're the King, you think you're some kind of terrible dictator, but you're just a fucking coward."

"You think I'm afraid of you?" Connor (the apple _inside_ Connor) demands. "Or the trinket you carry?"

"No," Desmond says. "I don't think you're scared of me, but I think you're terrified of _something_. You've spent centuries building up your own power, killing anyone that threatens you or even questions you. A brave man wouldn't rule the way you do. A brave man wouldn't be afraid to be good."

"Empty words," the apple scoffs.

Desmond shrugs. "I've never been very good at speeches. But I kind of ramble when I'm nervous, and I have… _definitely_ never done anything like this before." He pauses, and takes a deep breath. "Anyway, there's only one thing I really wanted to say."

"Oh yes?" the apple says. It sounds almost mocking, a disturbingly cruel noise, from Connor's mouth.

"Yea," Desmond says. And he looks into Connor's eyes, trying to see past the shadow of the apple, all the way through to wherever Connor is inside his own head. But there's nothing to see, not with the apple raging at him like this. Desmond soldiers on anyway. "Connor," he says. "I know you're in there. And I know you're fighting back. Just keep fighting a little bit longer, okay? We're coming to help you."

And without another word of warning, Desmond lets loose with all the power of his apple, and all those that have had their own apples in the past. It explodes outward, headed straight for Connor, and there's nothing left for Desmond to do but _pray_ that somehow, this is all going to work out.

-/-

Connor screams as every part of his body is suddenly set on fire. For a moment, it's nothing but sheer, excruciating pain. It feels like he's being ripped in two and there is nothing but pain, burning not his body but his mind, his _soul_.

And then, suddenly, a moment of clarity. It's like there's a tipping point in his head, a point where Connor realizes he's not being torn in two at all. It's the apple, being pulled away. He takes a breath, and then another one, and _pushes_ , fighting to get the apple out.

And then it's gone. Connor falls to his knees so hard it hurts, and stares up through bleary, tired eyes, at the swirling golden light hovering in the air above him. The apple, or its influence on his mind, pulled out of him. Connor sways and shakes, looking at it, but before he can fall he feels a solid hand on his shoulder, holding him up. He turns around, and sees his father standing there. Connor flinches, expecting anger, but his father only smiles at him. There's a hint of pride to the expression. "You came back to us," he says. "Well done."

Connor shakes his head. He hasn't done well, he's spent two centuries visiting every cruelty the apple could think of on generations worth of people.

"Desmond," Connor's father says. "The apple, can you—"

But he doesn't even get a chance to finish before the golden light that has been swirling near Connor's head just implodes. There's a quiet _thud_ , like a muffled explosion, and the light winks out.

Connor buries his face in his hands, blocking out the world, blocking out the memories and guilt trampling through his mind. The things he's _done_ —it doesn't matter if it was him in control or the apple, because those are the kind of things that can't be taken back. Not ever.

"It's alright," his father says, even though it's not. "The apple is gone."

"Why are you doing this?" Connor whispers. "Helping me—being kind? I don't deserve any of it, I never will—"

"Connor!"

"I can't stand it," Connor interrupts. "I keep remembering more things that I've done and it's too much."

"You're strong," his father says, and although he tries to keep his voice steady, Connor thinks he can hear a hint of nervousness there. "You will recover."

"Why are you doing this?" Connor demands. "Why are you saying these things, why are you trying to help?"

"I've been on my own a long time," his father says. "And I've had a lot of time to think over my mistakes." He glances away from Connor, and his gaze flicks just for a moment to the other side of the room. Connor follows his gaze, and sees Ratonhnhaké:ton and the other Haytham standing there, more or less together. "It's a long ways too late," Haytham says. "But I want to be here for you now."

Desmond crouches at Connor's side. He's holding an apple, and although Connor flinches sharply away from it, he doesn't really think it's the same as the one that had been in his head for so long. He knows exactly what that one had felt like, and this one somehow doesn't seem as… angry.

"Connor," Desmond says. "I think I know how to help you." He looks over at Haytham. "Both of you, really."

"How?" Connor asks dully. "The apple used to offer to help me too, used to tell me it could send me home, wipe my memories, make it like I'd never done the things I've done here. But I knew it didn't matter. Whatever happens, I'll still be broken. And deep down, I'll know it."

"It's hard," Desmond says. "But just hear me out, okay? I have a good idea, I promise."

"What is it?"

Desmond can't quite hide his smile. "A second chance."

He explains his idea in more detail, and as Connor listens, he starts to feel something almost electric jumping around inside his chest. He doesn't trust the feeling of hope that clutches at him now, but it's there nonetheless. Despite everything that's happened, it just doesn't seem to want to go away.

 **-/-**

 **Only one chapter left. (Then a sequel, because... I have plans for what happens to certain characters after this. Can't go into too much detail without spoiling what's going to happen with Connor, but... idk, I think it might be fun)**


	21. Chapter 21

There's no privacy in the safehouse where all of them are gathered, so when Desmond needs to get away from prying eyes for a minute, he goes and locks himself in the bathroom. He stands over the sink, leans on it with arms that shake like an old man's, and stares at the cracked bottom. This is it. It's over. The King is dead.

Now all that's left is to clean up the messes left behind. Desmond has no idea what's going to happen after this. This whole country has been under the King's control for… as long as it's been a country, really. There's nothing else for the people to fall back on, and there's _so much_ left to figure out. Opening the borders, figuring out who should be in charge, catching the country's technology up to the rest of the world…

But all that will (hopefully) fall to smarter people than Desmond. He'd rather worry about the things he can do something about. Helping Connor, getting him and Haytham home, undoing what the tea has done to Lucy… little things, things that won't change the world or make a difference to anyone else.

But they'll mean something to his friends. That's what matters to Desmond.

He heads out of the bathroom and makes it all of one step before Lucy catches his arm in a vicelike grip, stopping him in his tracks. "Desmond," she says, and her voice is so low that Desmond only hears him because he's part wolf—the others in the room are talking loudly enough to almost drown her out completely. "What did you tell Connor you could do to help him?"

"I told him I'd give him a second chance," Desmond says. "I was thinking—I want to send him and his dad back to their world anyway. It's where they belong, right?"

"Sure," Lucy says.

"So then I thought… why not send them together? The apple has a lot of power. I can feel it, every time I pick it up, and I'm pretty sure I can use it to give Connor a second childhood. Wipe out all the shit he's had to go through, and let him grow up with his dad."

"And he was okay with that?" Lucy asks skeptically. "He didn't sound too excited about just forgetting everything and starting over."

Desmond gives Connor and Haytham a significant look over Lucy's shoulder. They're huddled up together on the floor. Haytham has his arm around Connor's shoulders. "I think," Desmond says. "It was saying Haytham would be there too that really made the difference."

Lucy smiles softly. "Smart," she says.

"I just hope it works out for them," Desmond says. "I hope they get some kind of happy ending, back in their world." His attention snaps back from the Kenways to Lucy all at once. "I can help you too!" he says, and he cannot _believe_ that it's taken him so long to remember. "I should have done it earlier, but I've just been so distracted with Connor. But I can undo what the tea did to you, I can make you completely human again—"

Lucy laughs at him. Not cruelly, but with genuine amusement. "You've had some other things on your mind," she says.

"Just one or two."

They both smile.

"Look, Desmond," Lucy says. "I don't like knowing that the tea is going to make me crazy. But I do like you. I like seeing the world the way you do. And if you're offering to stop what the tea's done to me with the apple, I think… I'd rather be like you."

Something unknowable inside Desmond shivers, some feeling he's never experienced before. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"Positive."

Desmond stares at her, waiting for her to laugh, to change her mind or tell him that she's joking. But she just looks at him with absolute conviction. So, still staring, unable to tear his eyes away, Desmond stretches his hands out, apple resting on his cupped palms. Lucy hesitates, then reaches as well. Her hands come to rest on top of the apple, and for just a moment there's a bright flash of light—

And when it clears, Desmond is still staring at Lucy, who is staring right back at him. Her face looks just the same, but her ears are furry, and pointed, just like his. "Thank you," Desmond says. "You didn't have to…"

"But I wanted to," Lucy says. "Desmond, you probably aren't going to believe me, but from everything I've seen since we first met, I think you must be the most human person I've ever met. Part wolf or not."

And then she kisses him.

-/-

Ratonhnhaké:ton is really starting to dislike Warren Vidic (then again, from what he can tell, _everyone_ dislikes Warren Vidic). He's looking forward to when Vidic finally decides he's done with the safehouse, and goes off to do… whatever it is he does all day. Not bothering them.

But for now, at least, he seems perfectly content to stand around complaining. And, when he notices Desmond and Lucy kissing against the wall near the bathroom, he takes it upon himself to interrupt and start making crude comments about the pair of them. Both Lucy and Desmond break away, blushing furiously.

They can have this moment together, can't they? Isn't this supposed to be their happy ending?

Or maybe not. Ratonhnhaké:ton has been trying to avoid Connor ever since… well, ever since he stopped being King, and went back to being Connor. It's hard, right now, to think of Connor as being just another version of Ratonhnhaké:ton. Connor is falling apart, becoming a shaking, shuddering mess, and Ratonhnhaké:ton is coming together, becoming himself again. He suddenly has a life of his own to look forward to, a family, even. And Connor…

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't want to talk to him right now. That's all there is to it.

In an effort to distract himself, he looks around for someone else to talk to. Vidic is still making rude comments at Desmond and Lucy. Ratonhnhaké:ton's father is talking to Rebecca and Shaun, trying to catch up on the two hundred years they'd missed out on while being animals from the sound of it. Connor is sitting with _his_ father. The only other person besides Ratonhnhaké:ton that looks like they're at loose ends is Cross.

They haven't spoken much before now, but they sort of gravitate toward each other, just to avoid the awkwardness of standing alone.

"Hello," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, not quite looking at Cross.

Cross nods in reply, not looking back at Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"What do you do now?" Cross asks abruptly. "You can't have much of a life to get back to after all this time."

"Not really," Ratonhnhaké:ton agrees. But he's itching to start a new life. To do anything with the second chance he's been given. And how much had he left behind, anyway? His mother had died before Ratonhnhaké:ton even drank the tea for the first time. His people, for the most part, had followed. "I'll find something to do with my life."

Cross shrugs, and at first Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks the other man must be disinterested. Then he notices the way he's fidgeting, and realizes there's something more coming.

Sure enough. "Do you think it's really over?"

"What?"

"Everything the apple did." And Cross looks distinctly uneasy now. "I mean—look, I just don't trust things to die unless I get to see the body. And there's no body here, the apple's just a thing. How are we supposed to know if we've really killed it?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton points at Connor. "Because he's free," he says. "Last time, when Washington died, the apple just jumped to Connor. It didn't care that its host had died. But this time? Connor's fine, and the apple hasn't taken over anyone else. I know it's not as good as a corpse, but it's enough for me."

Cross nods. Then, after an awkward pause, he says, "Thank you. That's almost reassuring."

Ratonhnhaké:ton laughs. It's been a long time since he last did that, and it feels good. Cross cracks a smile as well.

"So what about Washington?" Cross asks. "He was just being controlled by the King, wasn't he? Desmond told us all that he died like a thousand years ago."

"Only about two hundred," Ratonhnhaké:ton corrects. "But… I don't know what happens to him now. Maybe he's just dead?"

"Maybe," Cross says. Then, making a visible effort to bring the conversation back to more cheerful ground, he claps Ratonhnhaké:ton awkwardly on the shoulder and says, "But we're all alive. So, win." And then he wanders off to drag Vidic away from Desmond and Lucy.

-/-

Desmond comes to Connor when things have settled a little (in the room around them, but not in Connor's head, which is nothing but alternating panic and numbness).

"Are you ready?" Desmond asks, looking between Connor and his father.

"Yes," Haytham says. Connor bites his lip, suddenly indecisive. When Desmond had first suggested that the apple could make him young again, and give him a second chance at life, Connor had been ready to jump at the chance. He's hurting so badly he doesn't think he'll ever be whole again, and he can't think of anything he wants more than to be very small, and curled up tight in the arms of someone big enough to protect him. To just leave behind all the terrible things he's done, and start again. To have a family.

But he doesn't deserve that.

"I can't," Connor whispers. "I did all those things, I _deserve_ the pain."

"You were being controlled," his father reminds him.

"I liked it," Connor says.

"No you didn't," his father says, in a tone so utterly dismissive it's (almost) insulting. "If you'd liked it, you wouldn't be falling to pieces now. You deserve better than to live the rest of your life being eaten apart by guilt."

"I don't _deserve_ —"

"I will look after you," his father says. "I promise."

Connor swallows back any more protest he might have made, and nods at Desmond. Yes. He wants a second chance. This time, maybe he'll get to be the hero instead of the villain.

"The apple offered me the same thing," he murmurs. "But it was different then. You're trying to help me, but it wanted me to do something irredeemable in exchange. I couldn't have come back from that, even if I never remembered doing it…"

"What did it want you to do?"

Connor can hear the frown in his father's voice without even looking at him.

"I was supposed to kill—" He sits up straight, so suddenly his head almost collides with his father's. "Desmond!"

Poor Desmond goes white as a sheet, and his ears stand on end. "It wanted you to kill me?"

"No," Connor says. "Your father."

Desmond gapes at him. "Dad?"

Connor nods at him. "He was a prisoner. Is a prisoner, I mean. He must still be there."

Desmond's mouth tightens with a kind of determination Connor doesn't remember from the first time they'd met. He's stronger now than he had been then. "Not for long," he says. "I… have a few bridges to mend with him."

"But you'll help Connor first," Connor's father says. "Won't you?"

"Yea," Desmond says. "Yea, of course."

"Are you going to do it now?" Connor asks.

"Unless you'd rather wait," Desmond says.

Connor shakes his head. "But can I ask you a favor, first? When you're done with this, when you're done cleaning up what the apple's done, get rid of that one." He points at the other apple, the one Desmond is still holding onto. "I know it's helping you, and we'd still have the King without that thing. But it can't be good, Desmond. The world is better off without it."

"I'll put it back where Ezio hid it," Desmond promises. "As soon as I'm done. It won't see the light of day again any time soon."

Connor nods. That's all he can ask for, really. "Thank you."

And then Desmond closes his eyes, and his apple flares, and Connor starts to forget.

-/-

Haytham starts out supporting Connor as he sags sideways against him. He's listless, as if all the energy has been sucked out of him. It's a truly pathetic sight—Connor does deserve better, whatever the apple has taught him to think of himself.

When Connor starts to shrink, to grow smaller and younger in Haytham's arms, Haytham can't help pulling him closer and closer, until by the end, when Connor is no more than a child in his arms, Haytham is almost clutching his son in his lap. He'd meant what he said when he promised Connor he'd look after him, but all the same… Haytham is not quite prepared for the protective instinct that washes over him in waves when he holds his son. And he knows then that he will never allow Connor to be hurt. Never again.

Connor's eyes are closed—Haytham thinks he must be asleep. But it's a peaceful rest, and there's a tiny, content smile on his face that he wouldn't have been capable of a few minutes ago.

"Connor?" Desmond says. "Are you okay?"

"Connor?" Haytham repeats, when the boy doesn't immediately respond. This time, Connor's eyes slide open—he looks momentarily confused, then yawns and smiles and curls up tighter in Haytham's lap.

"I think he's fine," Desmond says.

"Thank you," Haytham says. "And now—do you send us home?"

"Back to your own world," Desmond says. "Yea."

Haytham nods. But he's thinking things over, and after a moment he asks, "Would it be possible to send us to another time? I would very much like to go home, don't mistake my intentions. But Connor and I… did not get along well in our first lives."

"So what do you want?" Desmond asks. He's giving Haytham a skeptical look, and Haytham reminds himself that Desmond doesn't know about his history with Connor, about how Connor had gone far enough to kill him before they came to this world. All he sees is how Haytham has changed, how he has come to care.

"Send us somewhere else," Haytham says. "Anywhere else. You're giving Connor a second chance, and I…" it has always been hard for him to ask for help. "I would like a second chance as well."

"Sure," Desmond says at last. "I'll do what I can."

Haytham nods, and encircles Connor more securely in his arms. He closes his eyes, and prepares himself to (finally, _finally_ ) be sent home. The apple's golden glow wraps itself around the two of them, and in a blink—

They are home.

 **-/-**

 **It's over? It's over! I can't believe I actually came back and finished this fic! Hopefully somebody out there is still enjoying it.**


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